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TALES OF AN OPTICIAN 


A Collection of True Stories of Romance, Ad- 
venture, Comedy, by Mr. Frederick A. 

Airlie, Spectacle Maker. 


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BY 

ALBERT E. /NNE± 

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New York 

FREDERICK BOGER PUB. CO. 
1903. 


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•• 

























































To my Brother and Fellow Optician 
Mr. Wilbert F. Innes. 


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Copyright 1903 
BY 

Frederick Boger Pub. Co. 
36 Maiden Lane, 

New York. 





Tales Of An Optician, 


MY EXCUSE. 


There are some people who claim there is no 
romance in the life of a business man; that his 
existence is a monotonous round of business 
duties; that, in time, in his absorption, he be- 
comes like the meat in a nut, entirely oblivious 
to all going on outside. They assert that when 
a man leaves school and takes up the serious 
side of life, he puts behind him the pleasures, 
the boyish thrills, the wild escapades of his 
youth, and becomes a sordid man of affairs. No 
more must he wander in shady retreats or 
saunter care free along romantic lanes, the while 
whispering softly in the ear of Mary or of Kate 
who presses closely to his side. No more must 
he risk his neck in strange adventures, both 
amorous and mischievous, write foolish love- 
sonnets, or linger fondly under his lady’s win- 
dow, baying at the moon. No more must he — 
but why continue? Everything that was dear 
to him as a boy must be pushed aside, for he 
is now a business man, one of the wheels in the 
mighty machine, Commerce. He must work and 
work hard, if he wishes to succeed; and, for a 
substitute for the dear wax-like ear of coral 
tint, he must take the receiver of the unsympa- 
thetic telephone. 


2 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Now, as a matter of course, the optician 
is included in the list of unfortunates. The 
critics calmly affirm that, like all other business 
or professional men, he has no higher pur- 
pose in life than to catch and keep as many of 
the elusive dollars as he possibly can. They al- 
low, however, quite generously, that when he is 
in that delightful stupor called ‘ ‘courtship/ ’ he 
is living; but to the majority of men, old, 
baldheaded and wealthy, or young, blackhaired 
and poor, there comes little of the fanciful. 
They admit this condition is no doubt due to 
his surroundings, to his complete engrossment 
in the affairs of his store, factory, or whatever it 
may happen to be. The sum total, he is become 
common and is lacking those delicate chords in 
his being which vibrate in harmony with the 
fine arts. 

Far be it from me to refute these hard-hit- 
ting, yet perhaps, kindly, statements, but being 
an optician, I can claim, personally at least, an 
exception to the rule. They might quickly an- 
swer that my lone example but makes the rtde 
more conclusive, more worthy of belief. That 
reply, however, would prove an ignorance of the 
facts and would expose the shallowness of their 
arguments ;for it is my honest opinion that there 
are happenings every day in the downtown dis- 
trict, both odd and interesting, which, if clothed 
in the proper language, would form the basis 
of a successful work of fiction. 

It has been my lot ever since I can remember 
to have interesting things happen in which I am 
directly concerned. Some of them are prosaic 
enough and common to many men but, even 
common occurrences are novel to those ignorant 
of them. 


MY EXCUSE. 


3 


Now, whatever my faults, I am not selfish. 
What I know, others may know if they but ask 
me about it. I am no believer in keeping 
trade-secrets ; and my competitors are perfectly 
free to inspect my workshop whenever it pleases 
them to do so. By giving to the trade any 
knowledge you may have obtained, either from 
experiments or experience, you produce a grate- 
ful feeling in their minds; and, if they are not 
too wrapped up in themselves or too stingy, 
they will return the favor. The world owes no 
man a living, but every man owes the world 
whatever knowledge he possesses. I see no rea- 
son in affrightedly closing my doors in the face 
of my information-seeking rival. If he pilfers any 
of my methods secretly, to his material profit, 
he is the loser in character, and I certainly am 
no poorer. 

Some of my business friends have said to me, 
“You are foolish, Airlie; you should protect your 
interests more.” For such remarks I have no 
patience. I don’t worship at the feet of Mam- 
mon nor cuddle up to the brazen calf, Socie- 
ty. All I want is enough — that is, say a thous- 
and dollars for every year I have lived. With that 
I can play my j)art and be happy, which I am, 
always. 

Viewing life from this standpoint, it natural- 
ly follows that if I have anything happen that 
would amuse others, I am always willing to tell 
it. Accordingly, I am noted for a teller of 
stories. 

One day, after relating a story to Messer 
(that’s my chief assistant and confidential clerk 
— my wife calls him my chum), he looked at 
me and said, “Mr. Airlie” (he always calls me 
Mister, for I insist upon being respected by my 


4 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


subordinates) “Mr. Airlie,” says he, “why don’t 
you write up your reminiscences and publish 
them?” 

I glanced at him in astonishment, for I will 
admit the suggestion was new to me, although 
as a rule, and my friends will stand by me in the 
assertion, I am famous for my bright ideas, 
even more so than for my skill as a refractionist, 
which you must know is of no small degree. 
However, be that as it may, I turned towards 
him with a scowl. 

“Messer,” I said, putting dignity and decision 
into my voice, “your remark is trivial, very 
trivial indeed.” 

He got up and walked away, smiling. His 
was a peculiar smile. It arose in one corner of 
his mouth, wrinkling his cheek; ascended rapidly 
to his eye, which it brightened; then trickled 
down beside his ear and disappeared under the 
chin. At other times, that smirk, by which he 
conveys either sarcasm, scorn, joy or pity, or 
all of these, would have driven hasty words 
from my tongue; but now, it bothered me not 
at all. His words had set me to thinking in 
a new groove, had given an impulse to my 
thoughts along another channel. Perhaps it 
would be a good scheme. 

I will not bother you with my course of 
reasoning, of how I turned the project over and 
over in my mind for a fortnight, viewing it 
from all sides; of how I started to write several 
times, but threw the pen down and tried to 
forget the subject; of how it bobbed up again 
and again, arguing for itself that if the average 
man (Messer for instance) had been interested, 
others could be entertained also; of my plead- 
ings of lack of time; and finalty, of my unalter- 


MY EXCUSE. 


5 


able decision that succeed or fail, taunted or 
praised, approved or criticized, I would do it. 

I was not trained to wield the pen, being 
more at home with the trial case, and the task 
became tiresome and monotonous at times. I 
believe, however, that if I were to try in earnest, 
I could write as good as many of these authors 
I often read about in my newspaper. So, in ex- 
tenuation for these stories, I plead an unskill- 
ed hand and limited time. 

I am told by some of my friends who know, 
that I should first tell part or all of my his- 
tory. Although not averse to doing this, it 
strikes me that a patient and exacting recital 
of the incidents of my life might prove uninter- 
esting to many, so I will be brief. 

Be it known that I am an optician by here- 
dity. My father before me was an optician, but 
not as learned a one as I am; mygrandfather 
was a maker of microscopic lenses; and my 
great-grandfather was a famous astronomer in 
his day. This is enough to indicate that I was 
born with a love for lenses, with an insight 
more than ordinary into the difficulties of the 
trade. I loved to fondle bright objects when an 
infant, and a mirror or a piece of glass would 
keep me amused for hours. One of the ear- 
liest of my recollections was in realizing that 
a strong convex lens made an excellent burn- 
ing glass; and, while my mother was soothingly 
bandaging up my hand, where I had been try- 
ing to burn off a wart which I had been told 
to do by some older boys I fell to wondering 
about the strangeness of the heat that came 
from that bit of glass. Thus, early in life, I 
learned that experience is oftimes a painful way 
to gain knowledge; and, also, that one must 


6 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


not lend too willing an ear to everyone who gives 
advice. 

As I grew up, both by my father’s decision 
and by my own choice, I was destined to be an 
optician. I gained a good school education but 
I left when still young; and, by the time most 
3^oung men are just entering commercial life, I 
was a figure in the city and pointed out as a 
rising young business man. 

One day, across the horizon of my future, 
there came a dark cloud. M3 father was called 
by the Great Optician who seeth all things well, 
and I was left alone. Of course, my mother 
was alive, but women, as a rule cannot under- 
stand and appreciate the worries and troubles 
of a man of affairs. The whole of the business 
was in my hands to be managed as my judg- 
ment saw fit. 

My father was alwa3 r s considered a shrewd 
man, one who knew all the ins and outs, all the 
delicate shadings, all the little quirks and turns, 
of business. A common saying of his, while 
smiling quizzically, was, “M3 r boy, there are 
tricks in all trades except the optical.” He had 
taught me all he knew and it was but natur 
al that that, combined with my large native 
talent, should have made me the most successful 
optician in the city, yes, in the state. 

Some say that I am egotistical and vain, 
that I use more “Fs” in my conversation than 
anyone the\ know of. Perhaps it is true; but 
this I know, that I am successful while they are 
not. If I use an impolite amount of the per- 
sonal pronoun, I, yes I, stand ready to defend 
all my statements. Each one of us enters this 
world alone, must live his life alone, and must 
die alone. Therefore, why should I sa3 r “you,” 


MY EXCUSE. 


7 


when I mean “I.” It is my personal experience 
that it is the small fry, the failures and pessi 
mists, who are most prone to criticism. In 
accordance with this spirit, I trust I will not 
be misunderstood when I declare forcibly that, 
should you, my dear reader deem these stories 
rot, it is useless for you to vent }^our spleen on 
me for I am utterly impervious to such attacks. 

Everyone knows me and knows where to find 
me. They can tell you that on the most pro- 
minent corner in the city, the sign, “Frederic A. 
Airlie, Manufacturing Optician” conspicuously 
displayed in large gilt letters, stands the estab- 
lishment of a successful man who ranks high in 
the esteem of the business world. 



The Lady and 
The Chatelaine Bag. 


Even now, after the lapse of years, there is 
as much doubt in my mind that she was an ac- 
complice as there was immediately after the oc- 
curence. It must be admitted that there was 
sufficient evidence to warrant my suspicion, 
enough to point her out as the only logical clue 
to|the mystery. But I don’t like to hurt any- 
one’s feelings, even to thinking bad of one and I 
may have done her wrong, and may be doing so 
yet, by doubting her innocence. However, time 
is a hider of secrets, the sponge by which all 
past records are wiped out and thrust into 
forgetfulness; and, as I give a fictitious name 
here, there will be no harm done in telling my 
story or rather, her story. Should her eye hap- 
pen to meet these lines she will feel amused or 
offended according as she is guilty or not 
guilty. 

It was a hot, lazy, afternoon in July. I was 
lolling in a chair in the dark room before the 
electric -fan, trying to keep cool. Occasionally, 
my head would nod as I dropped asleep, to 
awaken again with a jerk. There is the germ of 
laziness in the hot air of a summer day and the 
tendency to procrastinate, to loiter in secluded 


IO TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

spots, to doze, is almost irresistible. From a 
neighboring room came a subdued sound of 
whirring machinery, a shuffling of feet on a 
wooden floor, a confused murmur of many 
voices. A feeling of peace and contentment settled 
over me, the happiness of a free and untrammel- 
ed mind in a rested body. As I wandered off into 
a half-stupor, the ante-room of unconsciousness, 
a distant door would slam, and I would open 
my eyes and blink at the light which streamed 
from the outer room. From my position back 
in the shadows, I had a clear view of the main 
door, yet was partly unseen myself. 

Business was bad. People were more heedful 
of immediate and temporary comfort than for 
practical and lasting physical benefit; and, ac- 
cordingly, they drifted into parlors where the 
sipping of soda-water and the eating of ice-cream 
were the inducements, instead of into optical 
parlors. Now and then, a stray customer idled 
in, left his spectacles with Messer to be repaired, 
or bought a small article, and idled out again. 
I was perfectly willing that such was the case for 
to do or think much soon became a punishment 
in the great heat of the day, and I was dwelling 
with pleasant anticipations on the two weeks 
vacation I had been promising myself. 

Along about the middle of the afternoon, 
when the sun’s rays were less fierce in their in- 
tensity, a lady came to the door. She hesitated 
on the threshold in a pretty way, turning her 
head from side to side like a bird, then seem- 
ingly reassured, entered with easy grace. 

I was wide awake, having been watching the 
flies buzzing on the screen door, and I noticed 
all of her movements. Presently Messer came 
and beckoned me. “She wants to see you,” he 


THE LADY AND TIIE CHATELAINE BAG. 


II 


said, slyly closing one eye, the impertinent rascal. 

I pulled myself together, arranged my clothes, 
patted my hair into place, and went out to meet 
her. I always strive to make a good appearance. 

“Is this Mr. Airlie,” she inquired, with a 
most captivating smile. Her voice, soft and 
mellow like the lower notes on a violin, was very 
pleasing and in keeping with her bearing. Hers 
was not a beautiful face; it was one, however, 
you would not be satisfied in looking at but 
once. She was dressed in some pinkish-white 
stuff which was very becoming and which brought 
out the delicate tints of her complexion. A large 
diamond shone beside a plain band ring on her 
third finger, from which I instantly inferred she 
was a married woman. From her belt hung a 
chain chatelaine-bag. 

“Yes, ma’am; I am Mr. Airlie,” I replied to 
her question. 

“Well, I want my eyes tested. I have heard 
you spoken of so highly, that I decided to come 
and see you,” she said, conversing so easily that 
I felt as though I had known her for some 
time. My ears are often greeted with such re- 
marks (which is not unnatural, seeing that they 
are true) but coming so neatly from her as 
they did, it actually brought a tingle to my 
cheeks. 

“Madam, you flatter me,” I remarked, then I 
caught a glimpse of Messer’s face. I am sure 
the scoundrel was grinning. “I always try to 
do my best. If you will kindly step this way.” 

She sat down in the chair beside the trial 
case, and I drew the curtains. I was glad to be 
out of Messer’s sight for he was a handsome 
rogue. Then I set to work. 

I intentionally prolonged my usual time ten 
or fifteen minutes, during which she was very 


12 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


patient, considering the temperature. The trial 
case would have been sufficient, but I went 
through the entire repetoire of instruments. She 
had made on me what writers call, an 1 ‘impres- 
sion” — no, it wasn’t love, merely a curious interest 
— and I was unwilling that the pretty flower 
which had caught my fancy should be taken 
away too soon. That was before I got mar- 
ried and was an eligible. My heart then pre- 
sented a broad target for the darts of the little 
god, and he appeared unwilling to disappoint 
me. I had been the principal in many little 
4 ‘affairs” and I took as much pride in an open 
gaping wound in my heart as German students 
do in their slashed and bleeding cheeks. 

Her defect was a very slight one, hardly 
worth correcting. This I told her; but, as she 
insisted on getting eye-glasses, I allowed her 
to have her way. 

“When shall I call for them, Mr. Airlie?” she 
asked, preparing to leave. 

“This time to-morrow, they will be ready,” I 
replied. 

“Very well. “Isn’t it frightfully warm?” she 
remarked, fanning herself with her handkerchief. 
“It wilts me.” 

“Yes, it is hard on the roses and other flow- 
ers,” I returned, gallantly. 

“Mr. Airlie ! I think it is time for me to 
go,” and she was gone with a fascinating laugh. 

I looked at her card. Mrs. Edith Allervon. 
A pretty name. A widow, I learned; a grass- 
widow. The scoundrel ! What a consummate 
fool to desert such a — a—a woman! 

Messer slipped up to me as I stood think- 
ing and said in a dramatic wdiisper, “Say she’s 
a dream, ain’t she?” 


THE LADY AND THE CHATELAINE BAG. 13 

“Messer,” I said, frigidly and barely notic- 
ing him, “has the mail come yet?” 

On the morrow, when the hour was past due, 
I was beginning to wonder why she didn’t ap- 
pear. Then came an extra gush of light from 
the door* way, and there she stood, in radiant 
white. Our greetings were formal; yet, during the 
half hour or so employed in fitting the eye- 
glasses to her nose, we kept up a brilliant inter- 
change of thoughts. I was delighted to meet 
one almost my equal, while I could see she was 
impressed on her side with my commanding in- 
tellect. 

During the next week or two, I saw her once 
every day and sometimes twice. Her glasses fit 
atrociously— of course I couldn’t think of fixing 
them right, only making a pretense to, and I al- 
ways told her to call if she had any trouble. 
She was a very obedient patient. 

Once after she left, I noticed the chate- 
laire-bag, her inseparable companion, lying on 
the chair she had just vacated. No doubt it 
had become detached and she had dropped it. 

Now curiosity is not a common trait of 
mine, as it is something I detest in others; but 
when I saw a small note-book between the open 
clasps, some strange impulse compelled me to pick 
up the book and open it. There, on the very 
first page, was my name — and what was this? 

“F. A. Airlie,” I read; “Bradstreet — $35 to 
$50,000— -large safe, gold frames — easy”. Then 
followed a perfect description of my place; the 
windows, the entrances, the location of the safe 
and the show cases. What did it all mean? 

Hastily continuing my perusal in a more se- 
cluded spot, I was soon aware of a similar des- 
cription of the larger jewelry stores in the city 


M 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


What did it all mean? I asked myself again. 
I was puzzling over it when she entered in a 
flurry. 

I was in the back part of the room with my 
back to her and it took me but a moment to 
jab the book in the bag, snap the same and slide 
it about a dozen feet from me. 

“Oh, Mr. Airlie, did you see my chate- 
laine?” she asked, in evident concern. “I have 
mislaid it.” 

“I have,” I answered.” One of my clerks 
picked it up after you left and put it, let me 
see,” pondering a moment, “Oh, yes, back here 
on the shelf.” I handed it to her. 

She breathed a sigh of relief and quickly 
opened it. 

“You’ll find it all intact, I can assure you, 
Mrs. Allervon,” I remarked, slightly raising my 
eyebrows. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Airlie,” she 
exclaimed, a flush suffusing her cheeks. “I acted 
hastily; but I have something in it — ah — of 
great value to me and I was too impulsive.” 

“No harm done at all,” I hastened to reas- 
sure. “It is fortunate you left it here.” 

Thanking me warmly, she left. 

In order not to unduly prolong this story, 
I will say that I got in the habit of calling on 
her at her home, a little cottage out towards 
the city limits, in which she and her mother 
lived. I soon forgot the incident of the note- 
book in rqy all-absorbing interest in her, or put 
it down to some idle fanc}^ of hers. Women take 
strange notions sometimes which we men are un- 
able to understand. Later, I often took her 
driving. As the time wore on, I was in a fair 
way to become desperately in love. 


THE LADY AND THE CHATELAINE BAG. 15 

The evening was a glorious one when I took 
her out towards the old fort. The moon was full 
and shone in all its silvery splendor. Eve^where 
was a peaceful quiet; and the calm mood of 
nature hypnotized us into a perfect contentment. 
A slight movement to the air, aided by our 
swift rolling along the smooth road, made the 
ride delightfully cool. I was happy. She was un- 
usually silent, save for a sigh which now and 
then escaped her. Often, I would catch her look- 
ing steadily at me, at which she would appear 
embarrassed. 

“A penny for your thoughts, Edith,” I ven- 
tured, after a long silence. 

“Is that all you offer?” she inquired in an 
offended tone. 

“Oh, of course, they’re worth much more than 
that, but — tell me what they were, won’t you?” 

“Are they of such great interest to you?” 
she asked. 

“As are all your thoughts, I assure you,” 
I replied. “Well then, I was conjuring up some 
of my broken ideals of youth and considering 
how differently our lives are spent from that 
which we planned in our day-dreams.” 

“O11 such a night ! such an ideal night ! 
Shame on you.” 

“Oh, you can’t tease me,” she said half in 
earnest, half in jest. “I mean it Oh, if I could 
only live — no, I’m getting foolish. Won’t say 
another word.” Then she sighed. 

We came to a small outlying drugstore. I 
proposed some soda-water, to which she ac- 
quiesced. When the drinks were brought I handed 
them to her and leaped out to fasten one of the 
bridles which had become loose. I was busied 


l6 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

there a few moments and apologised to her on 
getting back into the bnggy. 

We drove on. A slight mist partly obscnred 
the road which I concluded was due to our being 
in a long, low depression. Milky clouds were 
rolling up over the moon; the stars were barely 
discernible; the horizon was a broad, black 
belt. I felt sleepy; my eyelids were very heavy; 
I nodded. 

“Pshaw,” I said to the horses, “get-ap there.” 

The road ahead was dark as pitch and I drew 
the horses to a halt. 

“Guess we’d better turn around ” I said, 
drowsily. “I — don’t don’t — oh — h — h — ah — h — ex- 
cuse me for yawning — know — the — the road — 
very — well.” 

Coming back, however, was just as bad. 
The moon was almost hidden beneath the whirl- 
ing clouds. I could barely see the horses’ heads, 
so I let them walk for fear of losing the way. 
A low growl of thunder rumbled in my ears and 
I drew the lap-robe more closely around us. 
Suddenly the light went out with a jerk. 

When I next realized anything, I was sitting 
bolt upright and gazing all around. Everywhere 
the moonlight was intensely bright while not so 
much as a speck of disturbance appeared in the 
sky. Where had the storm gone to? Had I been, 
asleep while it blew over ? I looked in astonish- 
ment at my companion. 

“Have I to confess to being asleep?” I asked. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she answered, 
smiling sweetly. “I wasn’t the least bit afraid 
or offended. I know you must be very tired.” 

I said no more, but was unsatisfied. There 
was absolutely no excuse for my falling asleep, 
especially with such a ^charming companion 


THE LADY AND THE CHATELAINE BAG. I 7 

Ma}'be — perhaps— but no, I wouldn’t think of it. 

I took her home and drove back to the 
livery-stable. As 1 jumped out, the stable-hand 
remarked drowsily, “You’re out late tonight, 
Mr. Airlie.” 

“No, not so very,” I answered, pulling out 
my watcn and glancing at it. “What’s this ! 
Half past two ! oh pshaw, that’s wrong.” 

“No sir, that’s right.” 

“Well I’ll be — well that means I can’t ride 
home on the street cars. Guess I’ll stay in the 
store — Lord, what a headache. Goodnight, Jim.” 

I frequently slept in the store over night, 
when the cars had ceased running. A few nights 
later it was again necessary for me to pass the 
balance of the night there, and I opened the door 
unconcernedly. As I stepped into one of the back 
rooms, a blinding ray of light struck me in the 
face and a harsh voice commanded, “Hands up.” 

Now when I throw up my hands for any 
sneaking beggar of a burglar or footpad, I don’t, 
thats all. I had a book in my right hand and I 
threw both hands over my head but brought the 
right one down again instantly and crushed the 
bull’s eye lantern with the blow. Springing for- 
ward, I clenched with the unknown. Fortunately 
I clasped his right hand which held the revolver, 
in my left, and with my other fist I struck to- 
wards where I thought his face would be. A 
grunt and an oath told me I had landed. In 
his surprise he dropped the weapon. 

We were about equally matched. I could 
feel the muscles on his body as rigid as steel. I 
had been a fair athlete in my day but was 
sadly out of training. The outcome was very 
clear to me, yet I fought with all the doggedness of 
which I am capable. I shoved and twisted, jerked, 


T ALES OF AN OPTICIAN 


pulled and tried tripping, all to no avail. All 
my reserve force was brought into action. The 
pace was furious. We began to gasp. 

Suddenly I yelled, “Help, Messer, Help!” My 
dog in the next room knocked over a chair and 
commenced to growl and grumble. The burglar 
became anxious, and with a supreme effort 
wrenched himself free and struck me a stunning 
blow in the face. 1 fell backward with a erv. 
The dog broke into a furious barking and I lost 
consciousness. 

When I came to, everything was still as the 
grave. I got up painfully, and switched on the 
light. Our struggle was plainly manifest. A 
revolver, a lantern, the torn book, a strange 
hat, were on the floor. The door was closed, 
having evidently been slammed shut by the thief, 
in his flight. My watch showed I had been un- 
conscious half an hour. 

A couple of days later Mrs. Allervon entered 
the store. I had kept the matter quiet and 
only Messer knew of the attempted burglary. 

I had my suspicions, however. We talked in 
the usual way. Finally, I ventured a remark. 

“I found a hat the other night, with the 
initials “J. A.” in it.” 

Her eyes opened wide as 1 looked directly at 
her and she paled slightly. 

“That is nothing unusual,” she said. 

“Oh, no,” I answered unconcernedly, “only 
they resembled your own and I thought perhaps 
your brother or your . 

“I have only one relative — my mother,” she 
interrupted. A pause. “I am going away, Fred 
—Mr. Airlie.” 

“No, is that so? Where? Why?” She had 
me interested in a moment. 


THE LADY AND THE CHATELAINE BAG. I9 

“We are going to travel for mother’s health. 
We will be back here some day, I presume, but if 
we don’t,” here she held out her daintily gloved 
hand, “I hope you will remember me sometimes.” 

Tears, yes tears, welled up in my eyes as 
she spoke — or were they in her eyes — and I said, 
as I pressed her hand. 

“Forget you, Edith? Never!” 

It must have been a month * later when 
Messer came in one morning, beaming. 

“Heard the news, Mr. Airlie?” I hadn’t. 

“Smith’s Jewelry store burglarized and several 
thousand dollars worth stolen. Door locked in 
the morning. Burglars must have had dupli- 
cate keys.” 

I thought, “Strange, one of the names in her 
note-book. Me, Smith — who next?” 

“And oh yes,” Messer continued, “who do 
you think I saw on the street last night? Your 
old friend, Mrs. Allervon.” 

“Messer, your’re lying.” 

“I beg your pardon. I’ve seen her often 
enough to know her face She turned away at 
sight of me.” 

I controlled myself. “Messer, I feel sorry for 
Smith. Too bad. What do the papers say about 
the weather today?” 




















A Heavy Penalty. 


“Mr. Airlie,” said Messer, just as we were 
closing up one night, “you have often referred 
to a certain refractionist who once worked here 
and of whom you always speak in glowing terms. 
Whatever became of him?” 

“Oh, that was years ago, before your time,” 
I answered. “I was a boy then. Yes, he started 
in here at the bottom and worked up to your 
position. A finer fellow I never met and — well, 
maybe I’d. better , tell you his story, if y^ou don’t 
mind.” 

“Certainly,” he said, and we sat down. 


James Afton, optician, came swinging along 
the street in his good-natured way, bowing to his 
male acquaintances and tipping his hat 'to the 
fair ones. Good humor stuck out from every point 
of his face as visible as the quills on a porcupine. 
His handshake was the grip of a clean, whole- 
souled man; and the touch of his flesh sent a cur- 
rent of fresh, pure, sincerity thrilling through the 
nerves of those who grasped his hand. Utterly" 
unconscious of the commercial value of such a na- 
ture, he gained good friends and customers wher- 
ever he went, and there were none who had not a 
good word for him. 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


But to-day there was a certain gay r ety in his 
step and a brightness in his eyes that was no- 
ticeable even in him. The peculiar seductiveness 
of the spring breeze that was teasing the blood of 
all men, straightening up the hunched form en- 
gendered by too long use of the overcoat, caus- 
ing to glow with good feeling the face gray with 
care and worry from poring over musty ledgers, 
was, in part, accountable for his sprightliness. 
In that he was but experiencing the elation of 
others. To none was it necessary to declare 
“Cheer up, cheer up; spring is here;” for they all 
knew it. 

Born in the far south, a tiny zephyr, destined 
to be a wanderer by an inevitable law, rolled 
gently northward to cheer the dwellers in the cold ; 
and as it advanced, it sucked the honey from the 
flowers, soughed through the leafing trees, and 
caught up the sweet smell of the freshly-turned 
earth, till, saturated and heavy with an indefina- 
ble fragrance, it reached the chilled cities and 
forced its message into the hearts of the dwellers 
therein. Who so hardened by the race for wealth 
as to resist its calling? Who so tainted by com- 
mercialism as to deny its tender mission? Ah, 
when the first messenger of the happy season is at 
hand, bestir yourself. Life is too short to waste 
in one long, useless struggle. 

And there was none who reflected rapture 
more than James Afton. As he entered the store 
he was happy; happy because of his success and 
because he was in love. Everybody was so good, 
he had so many friends who were so kind to him, 
he was making good money and then — there was 
she. Even nature was smiling — oh, this was a fine 
world ! There was no gainsaying the fact that he 
was very joyous on this day of days. How de- 


1' L E S OF AN OPTICIAN. 


23 


liglitful it is to behold such sincere cheerfulness; 
and how sad it is that such natures should ever 
suffer a repulse. 

But let us follow him into his den. He went 
along between the two lines of glass showcases, 
back to the extreme part of the room where the 
office was placed. As he hung up his hat he 
glanced at a man at one of the desks. The man 
was seemingly unconscious of his presence for he 
wrote on unheeding. Afton smiled. 

'‘Hello, John!” he called out cheerfully. No 
reply. 

“ Oh, I say John, hello !” Afton repeated louder 
Still no response. He slapped the other on the 
back and insisted on being heard. 

“Wilt thou greet me, thou plodder, or is thy 
ear deaf to all sounds but the scratch, scratch, 
of that pen?” 

“Hello, hello,” surilv replied the writer, yet 
never ceasing his work. The optician seated him- 
self nearby and started to read the morning 
paper. But before we go any further, we will 
see what kind of men they were. 

Afton was a lovable man, large-hearted, gener- 
ous to a fault, and with a child-like confidence in 
the honesty of others. The other, John Hard- 
ing, a jeweler, was a shrewd, grasping man, with a 
nature naturally cunning, yet augmented by per- 
sistent encouragement. The optician was slow to 
offend and quick to forgive; the jeweler never for- 
got an injury. One was calm, large-boned, health} r ; 
the other was small, wiry, dark-browed and dys- 
peptic. One had a mind, free, open, impressiona- 
ble; the other was suspicious, quick to grasp an 
advantage and crush the opponent. Of a thous- 
and men you could not pick out two of moixrop- 


24 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


posite natures, the positive and the negative, than 
James Afton and John Harding. 

In their boyhood they had been inseparable 
chums. Where one went, the other went also. So 
constant was the attendance of one upon the 
other, they became known as the “Two J's.” 
Both were orphans and as poor as the prover- 
bial mouse; and both had a poor boy's ambi- 
tion to obtain wealth. They vowed to stand by 
each other throughout life; but where Afton was 
fervently sincere in his troth, Harding was but 
lukewarm. 

And when John apprenticed himself to a jew- 
eler, Jim promptly sought a similar line of work 
but was compelled to be content with learning 
the optical trade. And right there entered the 
wedge that was afterwards to separate them for- 
ever. 

The jeweler's apprentice was possessed of an 
unhoty ambition. To be rich, to be admired, to 
be the employer of many men, to be the envy of 
all, was to be happy. So he drilled himself con- 
stantly, searching in all the methods of modern 
business. To that he added an economy that was 
almost penuriousness. In time, the secrets of the 
business, the honest, the dishonest, and the ques- 
tionable were an open book to him. He versed 
himself in all and stood ready to employ any of 
them, should the occasion arise. A wise observer 
could have stated, then and there that this man 
was destined to be a success, if success is meas- 
ured by the number of dollars to one's credit at 
the bank. 

Meanwhile his chum was pegging away at his 
trade in an easy way, slowly but surely rising 
from surface-grinder to refractionist. His wages 
slipped from his hand as easily as the sunlight 


HEAVY PENALTY. 


25 


passes through a pane of glass. He was learning 
and living while his friend was learning and ex- 
isting. In business he followed the promptings 
of his heart and gave full measure for value re- 
ceived. 

As time went on there came a tugging at the 
chains of friendship which bound the two together. 
The optician disapproved of the views of the jew- 
eler, who, on his side, had an unvoiced contempt 
for the simplicity of the other. Yet, when a dis- 
tant relative died, and Jim got a little money, 
they decided to go into business together. 

This would have been all very well had Afton 
not been of such a trusting nature. The money 
was all in Harding’s name, and the store was 
opened as “ John Harding, Jeweler.” To the out- 
side world, Jim was merely an employe. Then 
came the quarrel. 

Afton finally tired of reading the paper and 
threw it down. 

“ John,” he said, “I want some money.” 

The writer paused, wheeled around on his 
chair and faced the speaker. 

“ Money?” he said, questioningly, “Why I 
haven’t any mone}^ to lend.” 

I don’t want to borrow it. I want some of 
mine, you know. The occasion is very important 
or I wouldn’t take the money out of the busi- 
ness.” 

“Really, my dear sir,” said the jeweler, an 
evil light burning in his eyes, “I don’t under- 
stand you. I don’t lend money; and if I did, I 
couldn’t for it is all tied up in my store here.” 

“Your store? Lend it? Come, John,” ex- 
claimed the optician “stop your joking. Write me 
a check for .” 


26 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


‘‘It seems you are unusually obtuse, this 
morning,” interrupted the other. “ I stated posi- 
tively that I havn’t got the money to lend. If 
you are particularly anxious for it, go to one 
of these salary loan agencies and borrow on your 
salary. I pay you well enough.” 

Afton was sensitive and this trifling irritated 
him. “Tell me, are you going to give it to me 
or not?” 

“No, emphatically, no. Is that sufficient?” 

“I didn’t think you would take advantage of 
me like that, John,” said Jim, slowly. 

“Take advantage of you !” cried the other’ 
rising to his diminutive height. “You talk as 
though you had an interest here.” 

“And haven’t I?” 

“ No, of course not. Every cent that’s invested 
here, is mine, do you understand, mine. You 
haven’t got a bean outside of \ r our salrry.” 

The optician was thunderstruck at these 
words. 

“Why, John,” he mumbled confusedly, “you 
don’t mean to say you have forgotten the — the — ” 

“I mean exactly what I say, Mr. Afton,” in- 
terrupted Harding, “if you gave any money to 
me, it must have been while I was asleep. Where’s 
your receipt? Be reasonable, man, be reasona- 
ble.” 

“But I trusted ” 

“Oh, go tell that to the lamppost. That 
won’t hold water. Tell me, have you any proofs 
of the transaction? Who knows you ever got 
money from a relative, or if you did, what became 
of it? Tell me, have you any proofs?” 

“No-o; I haven’t; but John ” 

“Tut, tut, man, what’s the use of this ar- 
guing?” exclaimed Harding. “Don’t you see it 
is obnoxious to me?” 


A HEAVY PENALTY. 


27 


“If I only knew whether you meant it or 
not,” said Jim, slowly, and peering at his friend 
through half-shut eyes. 

Harding turned toward him in a fury. “Jim, 
you’re a d— n fool !” he cried, “ Just consider that 
this closes the deal and never let this subject 
come up again. I am going to be somebody in 
this world, while you well, you’re too easy.” 

Afton had been slow to accept the situation, 
but at these last words he stood on solid ground. 

“Then I suppose I’m to take this as a dis- 
charge,” he inferred ironically. “I can fight it 
out in the courts if I like. Is that the way?” 

“It is.” 

“And I go into the streets?” 

“You do. And I might say that you know 
what to expect in the courts.” 

The chain of friendship was straining in its 
every link, and at the next words, snapped in 
two, a thing of ridicule. 

“Then curse you, John Harding,” cried Jim, 
with eyes blazing and a quivering finger leveled 
at the other; “curse you for a false friend and a 
proven foe ! Let the future decide between us, 
let the future decide!” 

It is the plan of things that when a great 
misfortune, or sorrow, or transcendent joy, stalks 
in our midst and singles out some particular one 
of us, that one immediately seeks to transfer 
part of the load onto the shoulders of others. 
To be sympathized with is to dull the pain or to 
increase the pleasure. Frequently, it is father, 
mother, sister, brother, or friend, to whom we 
turn, but more often it is the wife or the sweet- 
heart. And perhaps it is an inborn instinct in 
man, or the memory of the tender soothings of 
his mother in the days of careless childhood, that 


28 


ALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


causes him to unconsciously seek the side of one 
of the opposite sex. 

It is not unnatural, then, that in his trouble, 
Afton should now think of his fiancee, his future 
helpmate. The blow that had just fallen had cleft 
in two his faith in friendship, had mangled all the 
tender feelings which bound him to his fellow- 
creatures. All the sweetness within him was 
changed in an instant to bitter gall. That Hard- 
ing — John — his best friend could so treat him, 
was stupefying, demoralizing. There must be 
some mistake; it was all a joke, no doubt. Ah, 
but was it? 

Where was now the fresh bouyancy of the air, 
the delicate, subtle tang of the far-off woods it 
was carrying? Those sickly smiles and glowing 
countenances were a mockery to him. Perhaps 
they but hid a turbulent, agonized mind; an 
outward mask to deceive. John, his boyhood 
friend — oh, the horror of it. Ah, but he’d have his 
revenge; his day would come, sometime. For 
the present he must wait. 

He strode on and on, unseeing, a big man 
stricken with grief, concentrating, intense. Peo- 
ple spoke to him but he heard them not. They 
turned to look after him, wondering, hurt. Yet 
on he went, a whirlwind in his mind and an un- 
named regret in his heart. 

That evening, as he stood before his sweet- 
heart in her home, he was calmer. Her manner 
toward him was puzzling, 3^et he thought little 
of it. She was subject to sudden changes of mood. 
However, this one was new to him, and the re- 
straint becoming painful, he finally asked, “ What’s 
the matter, sweetheart? Got the blues?” 

“No, not that,” she answered; then hesitated 


A HEAVY PENALTY. 


2 9 


“I have something to tell you, something you 
won’t like. 

“Go ahead; I’m listening.” 

“I’ve been thinking Jim, that — that — ” 

“Yes, thinking of what? “She was silent. 
“Come, is it trouble with your dressmaker?” 

“No, no.” Her face was scarlet now. “I’ve 
been thinking — do you believe— I — I — do you think 
we’d better get married?” she finally stammered 
out. 

For a second time that day Jim was thunder- 
struck. 

“Well, of all the — now, what put that in your 
head?” Harding flashed across his mind, he 
whom she liked next to him. “Has John been 
speaking to you about our — our difficulty?” 
She didn’t answer. 

“Tell me,” he asked, roughly, seizing her by 
the wrist, as a thought struck him, “tell me, 
has he?” 

“Yes,” she answered, half-frightened at his 
manner. 

“Is that the reason you wish to break off 
our engagement?” 

She was more herself now, as she threw back 
her head, loosened his painful grasp and looked 
squarely at him. “Yes, it is,” she replied. 

Jim’s face settled into a sneer, an unusual 
form for his. 

“Kindly inform me of your course of reason- 
ing, dear lady.” 

“Well, you’re poor and have deceived me, 
while he is rich.” 

“Then he asked you to marry him?” he in- 
terrogated, dragging the words out. 

“He has.” 

“And you — ” 


30 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“I accepted on condition — ” 

‘‘That I release yon. How kind! How de- 
lightful ! How well matched ! Of course he in- 
formed you of how he robbed me?” he added 
fiercely, sarcastically^. 

“ Robbed you ?” she exclaimed. “No. He told 
me how you never did have anything but was 
only taken in by him through his generosity. 
You were ungrateful .” 

“Stop!” The cry was sad yet commanding. 
“And you believed it all. You decided without 
giving me a chance to deny it. You concluded 
that I had won you by falsehoods. You instantly 
forgot all the sweet vows and promises you’d 
given me and turned with open arms to this 
larger prize, to this modern Ananias. I can pic- 
ture you at the time. In your wizened mind, 
egged on by overweening ambition, you thought 
me too small a fish. Well, you got your desire — 
you have a shark, a human shark. Stop, a mo- 
ment more. Yes, Til release you, you of the 
fair face and hardened heart, you of the winning 
ways and treacherous promises, you of the — 
Oh God, forgive me what I do !” He rushed out, 
away from her, away from his thoughts. 

To one of Afton’s nature, two such blows 
produce wounds through which all the vitality, 
the hopes, the ambitions, oozes out; and into 
these openings rush despair, melancholy and pes- 
simism. The whole system is remodeled to a new 
scheme, to a new outlook, to a new reasoning. 
Some sink under it and forget; some are fortunate 
enough to regain their old time cheerfulness and 
open manner; and others survive but become 
pitiable wrecks of their former selves, helpless, 
dejected, mere excuses for human beings. 

Of the latter type was James Afton. From the 


A HEAVY PE N V L T Y 


31 


noontide of life, fresh, vigorous, manly, he sunk 
in a day, as it were, to the pitiful appearance of 
a man in extreme old age. He wandered around 
just existing, helped by his old-time friends. What 
little wits he had left were employed in selecting 
each night’s lodging place. Acquaintances who 
had been pleased to greet him in his better days 
glanced at him and sadly shook their heads. 

He was a harmless enough creature, poor 
fellow; yes, quite harmless. But had they followed 
him into some dark alley, seen him produce a 
small bag from a secret place on his person, count 
some small round objects that clinked suspiciously 
like money, then put it away, the while a sinster 
look glittered in his eyes, they would have won- 
dered. And they would have been still more 
nonplussed did they catch the words he was 
mumbling to himself. “Soon ha, ve enough, soon 
have enough; soon have enough.” Obviously, 
something was brewing. 

Catastrophe hides in small and despised 
things; a small stone on the mountain side, roll- 
ing down, may start an avalanche; and in a 
miserable, despised, human, may lurk the power 
to wreck a home, despoil a state, or overthrow 
an empire. So little do we know what is taking 
place in the minds of our fellow-beings; so lim- 
ited is our vision into the morrow. 

Months after reason had wavered and when 
he was a recognized figure in the streets, Afton 
found himself, one dark night, near a handsome 
dwelling. Hunger gripped his vitals and he was 
shivering in the warm air, yet he was happy; 
happy for no other reason, perhaps, than because 
he clasped a revolver to his breast under his rag- 
gedycoat. In the house before him were a newly 
married couple. 


32 


TATES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


The house was isolated and its whiteness 
stood out against the black background of the 
sky like a monstrous apparition. A night bird 
sped past high overhead, crying like a lost soul. 
There was a rush of wings, a tiny squeak, and all 
was silent. A little episode of the night, an ex- 
ample of manifest destin}^. A sardonic grin made 
the man’s face evil and he muttered, “Let the 
future decide, let the future decide.” 

Experience in entering vacant dwellings had 
lent to Afton a certain dexterity, and he was not 
long in raising a window and jumping inside. 
This was no professional work for he made an 
unpardonable noise. From place to place he 
stumbled, turning over chairs and kicking them 
about. His hand touched something, and he 
picked it up. It was a pair of eyeglasses. For a 
momemt a wave of memory kept him brooding. 

Suddenly, vibrating through the silence of the 
house, and far out into the night, came a peal 
of demoniacal laughter. It froze the blood of a 
certain woman upstairs and it tightened the scalp 
of a certain man who was making his way down 
the back stairs, so that he stopped still and op- 
ened wide his mouth in horror. Again and again 
that terrible laughter trembled through the house; 
then it died down to a satirical chuckling and 
ended with a snarl. Minutes passed, yet all was 
deadly quiet. 

The man on the stairs moved down, softly, 
fearfully, and reaching the bottom, touched a 
button. A brilliant light flooded the scene, re- 
vealing a man standing with chin on breast, 
thinking, thinking. 

What matters it if the man of the house rec- 
ognized the intruder? He came uninvited and in 
the forbidden hours. What matters it if the other 


A HEAVY PENALTY. 


33 


was still in his statne-like position? Let him 
take that — and a report rang out, followed by 
a muffled scream from overhead. 

Afton looked up, pressed a hand to his breast, 
and cried, “ John;” then, staggering back, he 
fell in the dark hallway. Harding hesitated, 
then followed. 

Ere he had taken half a dozen steps, he 
noticed the fallen man sit up and raise a glit- 
tering weapon in his direction. He immediately 
jumped out of range around the corner of the 
door, yet not six feet from the man he had shot. 

A voice spoke from the darkness, the voice of 
sanity. 

“John, I advise you to come no further, 
for I am armed. Furthermore, I deem it best 
for you to make your peace with your God for 
you are soon to die.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Jim, why are you 
here?” cried Harding in terror. “You are crazy, 
man, crazy and don’t know what you’re doing 1 
Besides, I am armed also.” 

“Ha, ha,” jeered the wounded man “Yes, 
I was crazy, but your blessed bullet has 
straightened that all out. I can think clearly 
again. My wound is mortal, so what do I 
care, now. But you— ah, how you love life ! 
How you long to live so you can continue to 
cheat, rob and destroy. And your wife, the ten- 
der-hearted creature, how she will fawn and 
fumble over your cold body, ere it is takenaway 
to be buried deep, deep, down in the ground, 
among the worms and slimy things ! Ah, what 
a pity, John, what a pity!” 

“Jim,” whined the jeweler, in agony, “by all 
that’s good and holy, I swear to restore to 
you, all that’s yours if you will not shoot. 


34 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Here, here is my hand on it, around the corner 
to show — God!” 

He had treacherously shoved his gun around 
instead of his empty hand, but jerked it back as 
a bullet carried away his thumb and sent the 
revolver spinning halfway across the room. 

“Mary,” shrieked Harding, in frantic des- 
peration, “as you love me, call the police!” 

“Yes, call them, Mary, call them,” mocked 
the man in the hallway, “but tell them to 
bring the ambulance. John, my dear friend, my 
true friend, I am coming, for I am growing weak. 
The future’s deciding, John.” 

The jeweler measured the distance to safety 
with a bloodshot eye — only a matter of a few 
feet. Yet, quick as was his movement, a small 
round object was quicker, and he rolled in a knot 
on the floor ere he had passed two-thirds of the 
zone of death. The white face was towards the 
blackness out of which a man was slowly, 
painfully, crawling. 

Off in the distance a bell tinkled, and a 
voice in terror was heard. 

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Harding — no, Mrs. Hard- 
ing. For heaven’s sake hurry. Burglars, mur- 
der; oh, help, help, oh .” 

Then came a dull thud as of a falling body, 
and the prolonged tinkle of the bell. 

Afton was mumbling to himself now as he 
carefully braced his back against the door, raised 
his knees and using them as a rest, deliberately 
aimed at the face of the unconscious man. 
Reason and life were parting company with the 
wretched hulk at the same time. He was talking 
louder now. 

“Poor John, so the teacher gave you a 
picking, did she? What makes your face so pale, 


A HEAVY PENALTY. 


35 


John? Never mind, old man, just remember 
that the future decides, always de — .” He gasp- 
ed and clutched his hands convulsively. 

Thus they found them. On the floor, the 
body of the jeweler growing stiff and cold; 
oppsite him and in a sitting posture, is the 
dead form of the other, the eyes wide open and 
staring — staring straight at a black spot in the 
white forehead of his one-time friend, and from 
which a tiny red stream trickles down to the 
floor, and as he stares, the blot on the floor 
ever widens, widens, widens- — . 














For Love and Money 


“Tom Perishing was here a few moment s 
ago,” said Messer to me as I returned from 
attempting to collect a particularly bad debt. 
“He seems to be a bright chap.” 

“ Bright!” I exclaimed, as I mopped my 
forehead. “ Why he has them all beat a mile. 
He can think of more schemes in anhour— and 
carry them out successfully, too — than his father- 
in-law can in a week.” 

“He must be smart to beat old Pollee.” 

“Well, he did it once in great style. That’s 
why he’s a son-in-law.” 

“How was that?” asked Messer. 

“Now that involves quite a tale. I’ll tell it 

to you this evening,” I added. 

****** 

On a certain evening late in the winter, 
Thomas Perishing dropped into a chair in his 
cozy room, his “den,” and, frowning at his pipe 
as he filled it, reviewed once more the event of 
the day. There was ample reason for this studied 
revision, for it was of epochal importance to 
him. 

First of all he had met disaster in the open- 
ing bout, had been fairly routed, even as he 
prepared his onslaught. So much had hung on 
the result; the outcome had shattered it all. 


38 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


There was nothing to do but accept the inevitable 
and retire in good order. 

Some two years before he had come from his 
home city buoyant, ambitious, aggressive, con- 
fident of an opening in this bustling western 
metropolis. Long and arduously he had labored 
at his chosen life-work till even he was satis- 
fied with the result. But before this became a 
fact he had gone the way of all men and had 
fallen in love. 

Now when love came to Tom Perishing it 
mastered a most resolute spirit; mastered it in 
the sense of making it more determined, more 
antagonistic. Where before he was hopeful, he 
was now most decided. Office boys in the great 
wholesale jewelry and optical house, R. D. Pollee 
Co., soon learned to step quickly aside when he 
approached, or to jump at his slightest bidding. 
’Sblood ! they knew when a man was dangerous. 

There was one man, however, in the estab- 
lishment who was unaware of anything unusual 
in Perishing’s bearing — and that was the head of 
it, Pollee himself. This important and wealthy 
gentleman behaved in like manner toward all 
these young fellows’ affairs of the heart — he 
ignored them. He believed in dealing with these 
‘ 4 cases” as he would with young shotes : give 
them freedom and the open air and let the 
strongest survive. But had he known the origin 
of this partiular man’s elation, he might have 
— but there, that is ahead of the story. 

Tom had asked for a private interview and 
was immediately granted it. The proprietor 
liked this employe. He remembered now that 
he had never had occasion to find fault with 
him, but had frequently heard him spoken of by 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


39 


his head men as “brightest young ’un in the 
house.” 

“What can I do for you, Perishing?” he 
asked. 

“ The first thing I ask,” answered Perishing, 
“is that you consider what I say as a business 
proposition. There is the possibility of your 
seeing it in a different light from what I do. 
That will not be unnatural.” He paused a 
moment. “What I was going to say is, I want 
to enter the firm.” 

Pollee glared, frowned, then laughed in a jovial 
manner. “Well, this is rich, this is,” he chuckled. 

Perishing’s face was calm as a summer sea, 
unruffled, serene. 

“I perceive,” he said, “ that you underrate 
the importance of my remark, or else you 
didn’t understand. I’ll repeat it, I wish to 
become a member of the firm.” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Perishing,” said Pollee, 
in his patronizing manner; “I understood you 
all right , but it struck me as being so absurd. 
You doubtless know, my dear fellow, I am the 
whole firm. So you see, in order to grant your 
desire, I would have to incorporate or you 
would have to marry into the family.” 

“The first way is what I had in mind. 
Even the second is not impossible,” added Per- 
ishing. 

Pollee’s brows lowered again. “Now, my 
man, are you not in danger of becoming im- 
pertinent?” he inquired. 

“No impertinence intended, I assure you,” 
replied the seeker for membership. “But any 
generous and liberal-minded man will allow his 
emplo3^es the chance of getting an interest =in 
his business. Their efforts are then more sin- 


40 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


cere and all profit together. As to the other 
remark, why you often hear of stranger things 
happening.” 

4 ‘Let me hear your whole proposition,” 
said Pollee, ignoring the last sentence. 

“Well, I have several thousand dollars and 
wish to invest it. I know of no better chance 
than right here. I know the business from A 
to Z, having striven to that end since I came. 
Also, I would like to get it settled so I could get 
married.” 

“And if I told you it was still impossible?” 

“I quit my last place for the same reason.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do anything like that, 
Thomas. You’re a good man, I will admit. I 
might suggest an increase of your salary.” 

“That would be a temporary solace, but no 
remedy.” Tom felt the ground slipping away 
from under him, yet he struggled to the attack 
once v more. “My request is not unreasonable.” 

“ Yet sufficiently so to warrant my disap- 
proval,” interrupted the employer. “No, 
Perishing, we cannot agree on that point, at all. 
There is considerable in what you say, and sim 
ilar thoughts have often crossed my mind. But 
I wasn’t ready to adopt them just then, and 
don’t know that I ever will.” Here he looked 
a full moment at the other. “I’ll grant you ten 

per cent, increase if you stay; otherwise ” and 

he slowly shook his head. 

“Mr. Pollee,” said the young man, earnestly, 
“you can realize that the salary question is a 
secondary consideration. Anyone can draw a 
salary. My heart is set on becoming more than a 
mere wage-earner, one of the many. And I 
have got sufficient money of my own so that I 
have come to the point where I can say, ‘ I 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


41 


will' or ‘I will not.’ If not here, then elsewhere. 
Think not that I am advancing these arguments 
for the benefit of my salary. Consider the ad- 
vantage of incorporation : the increased capital, 
the additional brains brought into service, for it 
is human nature to work harder for oneself than 
for others. Where you now have but yourself 
to rely on in difficulties, you would then have 
the moral as well as the financial support of 
your fellow-members. It is modern, excellent, and 
I sincerely hope you will come to look at it in 
the right way.” 

“Thomas, what you say is very sensible, ” 
said Pollee, visibly impressed. “I agree with 
you in many ways. But I feel free in telling you, 
under the circumstances, that all my wealth is 
not tied up in the business. I feel a certain 
pride in knowing that I have built up this house 
alone and am now perfectly independent of out- 
side aid.” 

“ Yes, but even the proudest and securest fall,” 
argued Perishing. 

“True,” admitted the other, “but I anticipate 
no such fate.” He rubbed his hands together in 
self-satisfaction. 

“ Then I suppose you will not take this under 
consideration.” 

“No; my mind is already made up.” 

“Well,” said the young man, slowly, and 
admitting that his last stronghold had been 
carried, “I’ll think it over and give you my de- 
cision to-morrow.” He backed towards the door. 
The elder man smiled benignly at him, and fired 
the last shot. 

“Take your time. Don’t be hasty, Thomas; 
don’t be hasty. Good-day.” 

As Tom revolved this over and over in his 


42 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


mind, in the silence of his room, he felt a strong 
determination rising within him. Were these 
two years of strivings and yearnings to be 
shoved aside now, at the whim of a satisfied old 
man? Was he to quietly submit to fate, and 
go on year after year, a wage worker, gradually 
losing ambition, to finally merge with the great 
mass of men, a nonenity, nameless? Was 
posterity, if even for one generation, not to 
know him? He answered these questions 
quickly, forcibly, in the negative. 

It was true he had been treated civilly and 
the other w^as justified in his course. But he 
felt hurt and angry at the outcome. 

If it were anyone else but Mr. Pollee, he 
w’ould leave for other fields ; but there was . the 
rub. Pollee of all men was the one he wished 
to conciliate and convince. There must be 
some way to change his mind. He would not 
give up so easily. 

He finally arose and throwing a light coat 
over his evening clothes, strolled down to the 
real estate office of Tucker & Son, where he 
met his chum, young Tucker. They were the 
warmest of friends and discussed each other’s 
affairs confidentially. Tom enlightened the other 
as to what had happened, then subsided into a 
large armchair. For several moments there was 
silence. 

“So the old man turned you down, did he?” 
Tucker finally said. “Handed you a crust, but 
spread some honey on it. Gave you a kick, but 
took his shoe off first. Well, what are you going 
to do about it?” 

“Dunno, yet,” came from the depths of the 
chair. There were serious cogitations in the head 
of the occupant and several projects w 7 ere in the 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


43 


process of evolution. Smoke came in fragrant 
puffs from him like from an overworked locomo- 
tive. 

Tucker saw he must speak again. 

“You must be pretty crowded over there, 
for the governor was telling me to-day that 
Pollee was in inquiring about the lease on the 
building next door. Said he wanted it as he 
never wanted anything before. Governor told 
him he’d look it up.” 

“Well?” came an inquiry out of the haze. 

“The lease expires this week and the owners 
ask so much for a renewal that the present oc- 
cupants have decided to move ” 

“The h--l you say!” exclaimed Perishing, 
leaping clear out of his chair and grasping the 
other by the arm. “Does Pollee know that?” 

“Oh, I say, old man,” expostulated his 
friend, “ease up on that bicep a little, won’t 
you? No, he doesn’t know it.” 

“Could you get me an option on it?” 

“Guess I could if you dug up the necessary.” 

“Get it for me to-morrow, as soon as you 
can. No matter what it costs, do you hear?” 
Tom was excited. 

“Yes, of course. But what’s in the wind?” 

“Never mind; I’ll tell you later.” Perishing 
began to pace up and down the room smoking 
furiously. The cogitations were being born into 
real, living, burning facts. 

Suddenly he stopped in front of the other and 
said, “How much money could you scare up — 
that is, of your own?” 

“Oh, a few thousand, I guess, why?” 

“Is it free?” 

“Yes, but put me on, you sphinx.” 

Tom drew his chair closer and sat down. 


44 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Then followed a discussion, which, judging from 
the vehement gestures and decisive manner of 
one of the talkers, must have been of grave im- 
portance. When they arose, an hour later, the 
real estate man was in a frenzy of excitement. 

“I’m with you, old fellow, ” he said, as 
they shook hands. 

“You’ll not forget that option?” 

“Just leave that to me — and papa.” 

Tom left and went straight to the dance at 
the old armory. He was a trifle late, for the 
music of a waltz came throbbing to his ears as 
he flung his coat and hat to the attendant. A 
glance into the ballroom caused his heart to 
thrill with the appreciation of artistic sympathy. 
All the electric bulbs had been enclosed in Chin- 
ese lanterns, which cast a subdued mellow glow 
over the dancers and lent to the whole the 
appearance and flavor of a fairy scene. In the 
center of the room loomed up in fragrant 
splendor a collection of stately ferns and lilies; 
while, at the farther end, the orchestra was 
hidden behind a fringe of palms. 

Perishing stood at the edge of a laughing, 
chattering group of mixed sexes, but he paid no 
attention to them. He carefully scanned each 
face as the dancers glided past for a certain 
one that was very dear to him. He nodded 
to many, being quite well-known and fairly 
popular. At last his eyes paused, for he had 
found her. 

When the music ended, he waited a minute, 
then strolled over to where she was surrounded 
by a dozen admirers. He parted them just 
enough to catch her eye, when he raised his 
eyebrows questioningly. She smiled and nodded 
assent. 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


45 


Finally the others were through and he 
gained her side. As she handed him her pro- 
gramme, she said : 

“ I kept three for you, laggard — two round 
and a square/ ’ 

“So kind of you, Grace. I was rather fear- 
ful ” 

“Oh, now, you know you weren’t, Tom. I 
made a promise and I made it to you. Isn’t 
that enough?” Her voice had a gently chiding 
tone. 

“Yes, of course,” he hastened to reassure. 
“I spoke from pure jealousy. I want a talk with 
you very much to-night. I ” 

“May I consider myself lucky?” broke in a 
newcomer. 

“See you later,” Tom called as he moved 
away, striving successfully to hide his annoyance 
at the interruption. 

Usually, Tom enjoyed himself to the fullest 
at these periodic affairs, but to-night there 
seemed to be a restraint on him; an unnamed 
fear he couldn’t shake off, and the minutes 
dragged by like hours. His feet arranged them- 
selves mechanically in the intricate movements. 
Far away were his thoughts; yet, ever as he 
whirled, he caught snatches of the conversation 
in the air around him, meaningless, absurd. 

“What kept you so long, last night? I wait- 
ed ” 

“Isn’t this music divine! I could die danc — ” 

“Why he’s an unblushing flirt ” 

“Did you notice what a fright was with 
Jack ” 

He felt himself to be a bore with his part- 
ners, yet did not attempt to make himself 
otherwise. What was the use until he knew it 


46 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


all? Were it not for a certain person lie would 
not be here to-night. He had a serious problem 
to solve, one which threatened to swerve the cur- 
rent of his life into another channel. Persistently 
there came before him the picture of Pollee as 
he last remembered him, standing smiling and 
patronizingly saying, “ Don’t bediasty, Thomas; 
don’t be hasty.” And beside the father stood 
the daughter, his sweetheart. Words came to 
his ears and for a moment he thought she was 
speaking, but it was only the parrot-like gabble 
of the moving throng around him as they whisked 
by. 

“But I’d give him a chance to prove it. He 
might ” 

“Well, to please you, Mr. — ah — Mr. — oh, how 
foolish of me to forget your name ” 

Then he would grasp his partner more se- 
curely and gyrate madly, crazily. 

Finally, his turn came. They seated them 
selves in a remote corner, deciding to sit it out. 
For a space neither spoke a word, but contented 
themselves with looking at each other. The 
girl waited patiently, for she knew what he was 
thinking about. 

“Well, Grace,” said Tom, smiling, “I bearded 
the lion in his den to-day.” 

“Oh, did you?” she exclaimed excitedly, 
“and the result?” 

“None. Absolutely none. Your father 
wouldn’t hear of it — laughed at me in fact. 
But if he thinks that ends it, he is mistaken, 
that’s all.” 

The girl’s face had clouded at these words. 
“What do you intend doing?” she asked, feel- 
ing as if the question were unnecessary. 

“Say Grace,” said her companion, ignoring 
her query, “do you know lam getting tired of 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


47 


this meeting at haphazard, of this will-o’-the- 
wisp game. Here am I, eminently able to get 
married and yet prohibited from entering the 
home of my fiancee, for fear of the dread father- 
in-law-to-be. I am reduced to the expedient of 
meeting her in public places chaperoned by some 
one obnoxious to me. I tell you, Grace, I am 
tired of it.” 

“You know, dear, I can’t help it.” 

“You can help it in this much. To-morrow 
I am going to get a lay-off for a month. No, 
Grace, I can’t tell you why just yet, but I will 
be gone most of this time and will not be able 
to see you. When next we meet it will be with 
your father’s consent or — we will get married, 
yes or no. Come tell me, is it a go?” 

“Run away ! Elope !” Her eyes opened wide 
at the thought. “Oh, Tom, I couldn’t do it!” 

“Oh, I expect not.” His words were sadly 
reproving. 

“Forgive me, Tom,” exclaimed his promised 
wife. “You canunderstand how I feel about it. 
Of course, if it comes down to that alternative 
I will accept and make the best of bad matters.” 
How he longed to embrace her for these words ! 
“But father — you haven’t asked him?” 

“No, and I don’t intend to — yet. When I 
do I anticipate having something more sub- 
stantial to offer than I have now. Sorry I 
can’t tell you,” his voice became gentle and 
loving, “but you’ll trust me this once, the first 
time I have ever kept anything from you?” 

The music ceased and the dancers commenced 
to seat themselves or saunter around the room. 

“As I always have, Tom,” she replied. There 
was love for him mixed with paternal obedience 
in her next words. “Oh, I wish I knew how i 


48 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

would all end !” 

“Just trust in me, sweetheart, and all will be 
well. At present the outlook is not very encour- 
aging, but as my friend, little Patsy, the boot- 
black, says, ‘Dey’re all de same to me. No 
matter what de color of de leder, I kin make 
’em shine V Grant me the boon of your love 
and encouragement and I would attempt 
Gibralter itself! Let’s take a walk.” 


When Perishing entered the office of his 
employer, next day, he was resolution itself. 
And why not? Did he not have the love of a 
good woman to back him, the love that causes 
men to surmount obstacles mountain high? 

Was he not the favored suitor of a princess, 
the one knight whose presence was to her as 
the calm of a benediction or the fire of a tonic ? 
He would be base, ungrateful and emotionless, 
indeed, if he did not respond in forcible thought 
and action to the trust imposed in him. But of 
this the man before him knew nothing. 

He was granted his lay-off, though with evi- 
dent surprise. Curiosity rankled in the eyes of 
the elder man, a wonder as to what the other 
intended doing. No doubt he desired time in 
order to seek another place. In that case — well, 
he might offer a still better inducement to stay. 
He was forced to admire the strong determin- 
ation stamped on the young man’s features, yet 
was too much of a gentleman to push unwel- 
come queries to any length. He would be 
missed in the business for a month, and badly, 
too, but it was probably best to humor this 
employee, so he gave his sanction. 

Perishing hurried around to his friend, the 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


49 


real-estate man. Speed was necessary, for he 
was due at the depot in half an hour. He bounded 
up the stairs three steps at a time and forced 
his personality into the dry atmosphere of the 
office like a gust of wind. 

“Well, how about it? Did you get it?” he 
asked. 

“ Certainly,” drawled Tucker, Jr. “Did you 
ever know this Napoleon of business, this 
marvelously astute personage, this man of 
unrecognized genius, to fail when once he” 

“Oh, Rats ! Out with the terms ! I'm in a 
hurry.” 

Of these two men, Tom was the leader, and 
the other instantly fell into line. 

“Three hundred dollars for a month’s dur- 
ation. The place is horribly sought after and 
that was the best I could do.” 

“It comes high,” mused Perishing, “but the 
game is worth it. Now listen. When Pollee comes 
in, tell him that the man who has the option 
will decide in a month whether he can have the 
place or not. Terms, $1,000.00. Possibly, how- 
ever, he may wish to keep the building for himself. 
Don’t for the life of you let him know who has 
it, or the jig’s up. The Senior’s 0. K., is he?” 

“All pat.” 

“Then I’m off. Remember, mum’s the word.” 

At the depot Tom bought a ticket for 
Glendale, the second largest city in the state, 
and about fifty miles away. Let him but 
succeed there, he figured, and the rest would 
be easy. As he climbed aboard the train, he 
noticed two men standing on the platform. 
They were peering into the car through the glass 
door, but at his appearance they started and. 
turned their backs. 


50 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

“Strange behavior,” he thought, as he pushed 
past them and dropped his traveling case in the 
first seat. There were but three other occupants : 
a middle-aged man at the extreme end of the car, 
and a woman and a boy across the aisle. The 
train was not due to start for a few minutes so 
he went to the platform to smoke. The two 
strangers were still there. 

“Could I trouble you for a match, my 
friends ?” he asked. One of them turned partly 
around, produced a match, then presented his 
back again. 

“Thanks. Fine morning, isn’t it?” remarked 
Perishing, sociably. 

“It will do,” answered the man who gave 
the match. Then, without another word, they 
descended the steps and strolled off. Perishing 
looked after them. 

“Surly cusses,” he said, half aloud. “Pll bet 
a dollar you’d deserve watching, my pretty 
fellows.” 

The train was speeding along through the 
open country, the city with its noises and 
strivings and strugglings being left far behind, 
and Perishing was deep in some papers spread out 
on his knee, when an exclamation from the woman 
across the aisle caused him to glance at her. 
She was staring straight ahead of her with a 
look of suppressed fear and excitement. He turn- 
ed his eyes in that direction in time to see two 
men start up from beside the other passenger, 
separate and each dart for a door. It took him 
but a second to recognizethe one coming toward 
him on a run as the giver of the match. In- 
stantly he guessed there was something wrong 
and he thrust his foot into the aisle, and over it 
the runner fell with a crash. 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


5 1 


Perishing was out of his seat and down on 
the fallen man’s back before the latter had 
time to recover his breath. The man cursed and 
swore and furiously tried to dislodge his captor, 
who only smiled at the efforts, for he had not 
studied wrestling not to be able to hold another 
man when that one was placed at a disadvant- 
age. 

“Hold him ! Hold the thief ! yelled the elderly 
man who had now rushed up. “Here, boy, get 
the conductor. Quick, do you hear, run ! Ah, 
here he is. Conductor !” 

The man in blue quickly approached. 
“What’s the matter here?” he demanded. “Stole 
my wallet. Iron him and hand him over to 
the” 

“Just keep him quiet, sir.” said the con- 
ductor to Perishing, indicating the prostrate 
villain. “We’ll soon be stopping, now and will 
get help.” 

As the man was being led away between 
the two stalwart guards, he glowered at Perish- 
ing and threatened, “Oh, I’ll get you, you 
coward !” 

Perishing smiled the smile of victory and 
triumphant right. “You haven’t got an extra 
match around you, have you, my friend?” he 
asked, good humoredly. 

“Bah!” came a very natural response. “You 
can’t expect a man to be civil under such con- 
ditions.” 

“All aboard,” sang the conductor, and the 
train moved on its way. 

The oldish man, the intended victim, was in 
Perishing’s seat, but jumped up as this athletic 
young man entered and grasped his hand. 

“Well, I got it all right,” he .exclaimed, 


52 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


beamingly, as he brought a sleek fat-looking 
pocket-book into view, “or rather, you did. I 
don’t know how to thank you, but I hope I may 
have a chance some day to do you a good turn.” 

“Oh, never mind that,” said Perishing. “Sit 
down and let us talk it over. How did it 
happen?” 

“Well, you see,” began the other, when 
seated, “I just completed a deal over a patch 
of land and had some two thousand odd dollars 
in my wallet. I noticed these men near me for 
some time, but thought nothing of it. Why, who 
would have thought it in the broad daylight?” 
The speaker paused as if for an answer. “Well, 
he continued, “I was reading when these two men 
— I guess the other escaped — came up softly and 
after making a remark about the weather, sat 
down beside me. It was rather impertinent, 
but I passed it over.” 

“They had not been there but a few moments 
when suddenly one of them clapped his hand 
over my mouth and pressing his body against 
my right arm, grabbed my other hand. I 
couldn’t budge, and before I knew it, the other 
scoundrel was through my pockets and had 
the money. Up they jumped and ran, first kindly 
jolting me under the chin. The rest you know. 
But for you — but pardon me, I haven’t the 
pleasure of knowing your name. Mine is 
Larrington, of Glendale. 

“Not J. E. Larrington, the jeweler and optic- 
ian?” interrogated Perishing quickly. 

“Yes, But ” 

“My name is Thomas Perishing. Delighted 
to meet you. I was on my way to see you.” 

“Is it possible? Do you represent some 
house?” 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


53 


‘ ‘Myself. I have a very important pro- 
position to make to you. Now,” added the 
young man, “since we have met so opportune- 
ly, and we have a little distance ahead of us, 
we can talk it over here and save considerable 
time. I trust I have your sanction.’ ’ 

“Certainly,” the merchant replied. This man 
was the best customer on the books of R. D. 
Pollee Co. 

Then Tom took his new-found friend into 
his confidence. He told this man with the kindly 
face of his desire to enter the firm; of his secret 
engagement to the daughter — not going very 
deeply, however, into this part of the recital; 
and how he had secured an option on a building, 
preparatory to going in for himself. First he 
desired to see all of Mr. Pollee’s customers, 
trusting to get their support. Most of all, he 
desired his, Larrington’s promise. The others 
would then be more willing to fall into line if 
they saw such a big man trusted the new firm. 

He admitted it did seem rather ungrateful 
and shabby in him to take advantage of his 
employer this way, but he only intended to use 
it as a club with which to gain an end. If Pollee, 
on seeing the results obtained and the immediate 
prospect of a new but dangerous competitor, 
allowed him his original desire, then all this 
was off. There was nothing wrong about it, but 
a bold stroke of business. 

“Now, Mr. Larrington,” continued Perishing, 
“I do not want to appear unduly anxious for 
a reward, but you expressed a desire to be 
able to do me a good turn. Now, if you 
will kindly sign this paper, you’ll be doing two 
people a world of good. I’ll read it.” 

“I, the undersigned, willing promise to send 


54 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


to Thom. Perishing & Co., all or part of my 
trade for the coming year. This promise is not 
binding in any respect whatever, and I retain 
the privilege of shifting my trade whenever the 
said firm proves that it is incapable of filling my 
orders satisfactorily, or for any reason I may 
deem justifiable. 

“The above is entirely voluntary on my part, 
and is entrusted to the personal care of the 
president of the firm, Thomas Perishing.” 

Larrington sat for several minutes in silence, 
gazing out of the window at the rapidly pass- 
ing landscape. The engine sounded a shrill 
blast for a crossing. Out in the fields a farmer 
stopped his early plowing long enough to 
wave his hat. A brakeman entered the car 
and yelled, “Glendale! Glenda-ale ! Twenty 
minutes for dinner.” 

The merchant looked his companion in the 
face. “Young man,” he said, “you have arous- 
ed my interest and I cannot help saying that 
though your project is a novel departure, it ap- 
pears to me to be very feasible, very feasible. I 
have always been satisfied with R. D. Pollee Co., 
but I like youthful energy and like to encour- 
age it, you see,” and he smiled blandly, “I was 
young myself once, and ambitious. But how do 
you stand ? w 

“I have some money and a friend has agreed 
to go in with me. His father is well-fixed and 
will back the son. My credit is excellent and 
would be strengthened by your signature. I 
anticipated a rebuff from Mr. Pollee by corre- 
sponding with several manufacturers. As I am 
personally known to a few of them, they answered 
they would be pleased to supply me on demand. 
Lastly, I have a building ready and am ready 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


55 


myself/ ’ 

“Mr. Perishing/ ’ exclaimed the merchant, 
“I admire your energy and nerve. I cannot 
forget what I owe you. Accordingly, I will help 
you as much as I can. I was preparing a large 
order to send in, but will turn it over to the new 
firm.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Larrington,” cried Perish- 
ing, wringing the other’s hand. “You more 
than repay me any little debt of gratitude you 
owe. I assure you I hope you will never regret 
your action.” 

There came a whistling of air brakes, the 
rattling of rapidly moving trucks, a confusion 
of many noises and the train came to a stand 
still. Tom and his new friend got off together. 

The young man was elated. This place was 
to be his first battleground, yet he had scored 
a signal victory ere he had reached it. He pictur- 
ed the opposing general, by name, Pollee, 
serenely unconscious of the devastating force 
that was menacing his greatest stronghold. 
While the enemy slept he was making a forced 
march, had captured a strategic point and 
was about to lay seige to others. 

Tom parted from his friend at the hotel, 
first thankfully, declining a hearty invitation to 
have dinner at the latter’s home. Later, he saw 
other customers and on the strength of the 
first, secured their promise and signatures. 

The day was gone and night had long since 
put up the shutters of business and sent the 
toilers away to home and recreation, when Per- 
ishing stood awaiting his train at the Glendale 
depot. Off in the distance, down the track, a 
yellowish red eye appeared and blinked, and a 
rumbling as of thunder smote the ears. Out 


56 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


there in the darkness, in front of him, xhere 
glowed a face, set all around with golden 
curls and glorified with a resplendant smile. 
The man knew it, for he was speaking directly 
at it in a low voice. “Grace, my love, we 1 re 
succeeding; yes, better than expected. Pray, 
dear girl, that this day may set a standard for 
those that follow. Last night with you — to-night 
— to-morrow ’ ’ 

For three weeks Perishing was a very busy 
man. From town to town he sped, sometimes 
several hundred miles at a jump, some times a 
dozen. A few of the expected customers were 
gruff and wouldn’t listen at all; but the ma- 
jority were perfectly willing to sign under the 
conditions given, especially after glancing at 
the rapidly increasing array of names, repons- 
ible business men. Some considered it a huge 
joke and laughed till the tears came; others 
fully appreciated the situation, but were inclin- 
ed to sympathize with the old firm. To these 
latter it was but necessary to tell that it 
depended on the head of the old firm whether 
the project ever materialized or not, to gain 
their approval. 

And so the days flew by. From many Tom 
secured substantial orders. Also, there were 
several new ones on the list who had been 
induced to enlist on the personality of the 
energetic promoter, he being a natural salesman, 
very magnetic. 

Hope and enthusiasm rose higher and higher 
in Perishing’s breast at his success. His soaring 
spirits reacted on those he met and the scratch 
of the pen usually followed. Finally, satisfied, he 
turned his face homeward. 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


57 


Pollee was sitting in his office, puzzling over 
an unexpected lull in business. This was usually 
a busy season with him — in fact, the busiest — 
and he couldn’t account for this strange 
lethargy, this abrupt shutting-off of orders. 
The clerks perfunctorily, yet lazily, performed 
their duties. The roadmen sent in tantalizing 
reports of “Filled up. Someone here ahead of 
me.” Pollee shook his head. They certainly 
would have to do better or — the door was 
flung open and someone entered. 

“Hello, Perishing,” exclaimed the whole 
firm. “I thought you were dead and buried.” 

“No,” replied that worthy, “I am very much 
alive. I have come again to see if you had 
changed your mind in regard to admitting me 
to the firm. Pardon me, but before you answer, 
have the kindness to glance over that,” and he 
handed the list of names to his employer. 

Pollee read the introduction and the first 
name on the list, then looked up in anger. 

“What does this mean, sir?” he demanded, 
“What right have you to ” 

“Pardon me again, Mr. Pollee, but I have 
the right of a free citizen, in a free country to 
do as he pleases. That paper means that since 
you refused me admittance, I decided to estab- 
lish and incorporate a business independent of 
you. Before doing so, I went on a tour of 
inspection and that list is the result. You will 
notice it is headed by Mr. Larrington, your 
$3,000.00 customer; the king bee of them all. 
You will also notice the names of most of your 
customers, and possibly many new ones.” 

“Is that where you’ve been?” was all the 
dumbfounded listener could say. 

“Yes. Not only have I got their written 


5 « 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


promises, but also their verbal protestations of 
friendship. Incidentally, I might add that I have 
at least $1,500.00 in orders from them.” 

“But what can you do with your small 
capital?” asked Pollee still in a daze. 

“You can rest easy that I have substantial 
backing; also satisfactory advances from 
manufacturers . ’ ’ 

“But where would you start?” interrogated 
Pollee, feeling that that was a puzzler which 
would decide it all. “You probably realize 
there is no suitable place to be had around the 
city.” 

“How about the building next door?” inferred 
Tom. 

“You — you!” sputtered the old man. “Are 
you the unreasonable wretch who has that 
lease?” 

“I am the gentleman, sir, gentleman,” re- 
plied Perishing, bowing low, “who has that 
honor.” 

“Well, ril be d d!” Pollee sank back in 

his chair and gazed at his employee in mute as- 
tonishment. Tom realized the time had come 
for an avowal. Drawing a chair over near him, 
he sat down. “Mr. Pollee,” he said, “I have 
always respected you from the moment I started 
to work here. To me you were a model to be 
patterned after. I flattered myself that here was 
a man who would allow me an interest in the 
establishment. I was sadly mistaken, yet set 
myself to work to prove that I was worthy of 
recognition. How I succeeded you know.” 

“I hadn’t been here long when I had the 
happiness to fall in love with one of the best 
women who ever graced God’s earth. My love 
was returned and after a time we became engaged ; 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


59 


secretly it is true, for we knew the girl's parents 
would disapprove of it. That love made me all 
the more determined to become a member here 
in order to convince the parents that I had some 
merit." 

“Well?” said Pollee as the other paused. 

“Well, sir, that girl is your daughter.” 

“What!” cried the father, rising. “My 
daughter ! Not content with attempting to 
force me to change my methods, you try to 
steal my daughter from under my very nose. 
Oh, but she won’t consent. I’ll see her.” 

“It is useless. She has promised me whether 
you will or not.” 

“My daughter, my little Gracie ! Oh, im- 
possible !” 

“I believe, sir, you are mistaken,” said 
Perishing, feeling sorry for the old man, as the 
latter sank down and buried his head in his 
hands. “Believe me, sir, from my understanding 
of you, your pride will not allow you to think 
of this firm going out of existence at your 
death. What more business-like than to provide 
for such an emergency? What pleasanter than 
to have a son-in-law in charge? Also, what 
would your friends say to have your son-in-law 
as a competitor? I assure you of my utmost 
respect and also of my determination. Come, 
have I your consent? I would a thousand 
times prefer that to the other.” 

Pollee slowly recovered himself and rose 
to his full height. His white hair was in con- 
fusion, but his countenance was noble. 

“Perishing,” he said, huskily, grasping the 
other by both hands, “I have misunderstood you 
all through. If my Gracie has consented and 
loves you why — I — my sanction naturally follows. 


6o 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Pardon me for any harsh words and God bless 
you both.” 

“Mr. Pollee,” exclaimed Tom, emotion al- 
most strangling him, “I thank you from the 
bottom of my heart. And the other proposi- 
tion?” 

The old man’s eyes twinkled through the 
mist. “ Could I for one minute deny a man 
whatever he asked when he has proven to me, 
as you have, of what stuff he’s made?” How 
grandly he was behaving in defeat. 

“Thank you again, sir. For my part I will 
say that I made the arrangements that possibly 
I would turn over whatever orders I got to you. 
I will write them accordingly. Now I will inform 
your daughter of our good fortune. 

Tom was leaving when his employer recalled 
him. 

“How about that option, young man?” 
he asked, assuming an air of great severity. 
Tom laughed. 

“It is yours for the asking,” he said. 

“Now that is what I call a rank piece of 
business — and you such a great business man,” 
said Pollee. “I learned you wanted a $1,000.00 
for it.” 

“ Yes, sir, I did want it — once.” 

“Then come here. Come here, I say. Here 
is the check. Now get, you scoundrel!” 

Tom felt like embracing the dear, gruff, old 
fellow, but refrained from such a release of 
animal spirits. But later, with another party, 
he was not so finicky and — well, never mind. 

Now if this was a love story and not a scene 
from real life, it might be added that they liv- 
ed happily ever after. Of course that was the 
case and — you might ask Tom, if you don’t be- 


FOR LOVE AND MONEY. 


6l 


lieve it. As for the father-in-law, he has come 
to the conclusion that a person is greatly hand- 
icapped when opposed to one who is fighting for 
love and money. 








Optical Kno 


5l?e 

Optical Journal 

36 Maiden Lane , 

New York . 



In The Form of a Man 


While sitting in my office, several years ago, 
debating on some schemes I had in mind for 
the betterment of my establishment and the 
confounding of my rivals — these same being very 
precocious youngsters and impudent — my eye was 
caught by a glistening object a few feet from 
my chair. I leisurely picked it up and examined 
it carelessly. It was shaped like an arrowhead 
but was more symmetrical than the stone points 
of the Indians one sees occasionally, and was 
possibly once and a half the length of an ordin- 
ary pin. Hot and greasy to the touch, it 
evinced a most peculiar quality when dropped 
on the floor, this act being followed by a 
clanking, shuddering sound, coming, as it were, 
from a distance, yet completely filling the air 
and disturbing the silence around. As for its 
composition, it was neither gold, nor silver, nor 
brass, nor copper, nor any alloy that I could 
name. It was also evident that a good scouring 
would help its appearance. The more I consider- 
ed the article, and the strange, unearthly emotions 
it produced in me, the more interested I became ; 
but, as there was no immediate prospect of en- 
lightenment, I placed it in my pocket with the 
intention of satisfying myself on the morrow, 


66 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


deeming it not improbable a charm one of the 
boys had dropped* 

I had come down this evening to help my 
bookkeeper over a particularly difficult error in 
balancing. This error was kin to all such evi- 
dences of carelessness, for we were frequently 
confident that we were on the right track, only 
to fall back once more into disappointment. 
Again and again, urged on by vagrant clues, 
we chased an elusive hope to its lair to find it 
empty of results, yet full of blasphemous possi- 
bilities. Such labor dragged through a period of 
several hours , duration, and abetted by an 
atmosphere of the collarless degree, was not 
conducive to tranquility of temper. It ruffled 
the mind as well as the shirt. It had the exasp- 
erating power of enlivening the dull pages before 
us with mental scenes of cool retreats and happy, 
carefree, people ; enlarging the pencil into a 
spoon frosted and chilled with its weight of 
delicious cream; exchanging the inkwell for an 
overflowing glass of good cheer — in short, 
torturing us with visions of that which we were 
missing. But the mistake was there, supreme in 
its hidden strength we had to get it and were 
deep in our figurings and scratchings when the 
clock on the government building clanged forth 
in resonant tones. Listening, I counted the 
strokes till they stopped at eleven. I expressed 
my surprise. 

“See here, Mr. Bookkeeper/ ’ I said, “close 
them up. You’ve done enough for one day.” 

“Well,” yawned the weary man, “I guess 
you’re right. I’ll come down to-morrow night, 
Mr. Airlie. But ain’t you going?” he asked, 
as I remained seated. 

“No, I’ll stay a little while yet. Good-night.” 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN, 


67 


It was after he had gone that I found the 
trinket. But I disposed of it as stated before, 
and was deeply thinking when once more the 
clock sent out its even, mournful notes on the 
night air. Closing my desk I took a last look 
around to see that all was right; and as the 
last stroke was trembling away into silence, I 
was putting on my hat. But suddenly, as I 
turned to go, a rare opalescent light filled the 
room. 

There is a pinch of superstition in the make- 
up of every man, and the gooseflesh rose all over 
my body, while a cold chill chased up and down 
my length. Where on earth had this fearsome 
light come from? Not from outside, for the 
streets showed black through the windows ; not 
in the form of a ray, for every nook and corner 
in the room stood out perfectly clear — I saw a 
mouse scurrying away in the farthermost end ; 
but it was just as if a block of a very luminous 
rainbow, cut out to order, had been transported 
into this closed-in space. Nearby the wires of 
the incandescent bulbs glowed dull-red. 

Slowly I turned around, looking for the un- 
expected to happen. But all was as usual with 
the exception of the bewildering light. A party 
of belated revelers approached in noisy man- 
ner and stopped just outside the store. Surely, 
they would notice something wrong, I thought. 
But no, they passed on with merry laughs and 
shouts. Could it be possible this was visible 
to me alone? Fearfully, I passed a hand over 
my eyes and held them closed for a minute, 
thinking perhaps it was all the result of overwork 
or eyestrain. But that was useless, for on 
opening them again they were greeted with the 
many hued effulgence. 


68 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Drops of sweat oozed out on my brow, and 
I remained transfixed in one position. However, 
as time passed and I still had a first mortgage 
on my soul, my composure gradually returned; 
and finally I had enough courage to remark, 
half-aloud : 

“Well, this beats me!” 

“Oh, don’t quit yet,” urged a rich, deep- 
chested voice back of me. Had the unknown 
prodded me an inch deep with a lady’s hatpin I 
couldn’t have jumped more. As it was, in my 
gymnastic contortions I managed to reverse my 
position, to behold standing before me, smiling 
— just a common man. 

I said a common man, didn’t I? Excuse me. 
He seemed to all outward appearances a common 
man, dressed in evening clothes, high hat and 
patent leather “kicks,” but there was a certain 
atmosphere surrounding him, and a compelling 
magnetism leaping from his eyes, that caused 
me to reverse my opinion. Nevertheless, it was 
such a relief to find he was not a ghost, hob- 
goblin, spook, spirit, apparition, or some such 
airy substance, that I instantly felt strength- 
ened by my returning courage and made a 
most masculine remark. 

“Who the devil are you?” 

At this the stranger’s smile broke into a 
hearty laugh, fullthroated, contagious. “Ha-ha- 
ha, ho-ho-ho,” he gurgled, holding his sides, 
“That’s a good joke. Haven’t had such a good 
laugh since Old Nick got his foot caught in a 
bear-trap. Oh my-oh-h,” and he went off into 
another convulsion. I was myself again. 

“May I inquire the cause of all this hilari- 
ty,” I said, ironically. 

“I hope I have not offended,” said my 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 69 

visitor, choking off his mirth. “It was irresist- 
ible, I assure you.” 

“I have not yet the pleasure of knowing to 
whom I am indebted for this visit,” I remarked 
icily. 

“For which I humbly implore your par- 
don,” answered he, searching the while in his 
waistcoat pocket for something. “Well, if I 
haven’t gone and left my cards at home. I told 
my wife expressly not to forget them. But 
never mind. At home I am called City Devil 
No. 13, but you may call me Dick, short for 
Dictidienses.” 

I began to suspect the sanity of my mid- 
night caller. As he was physically my superior, 
I resolved to humor him. A brawny arm, when 
owned by another, is a great help to a peace- 
able acceptance of things. Let me but provoke 
him; he would doubtless fly at me in a rage; 
then, flat on my back with his knee on my chest, 
and evil in his eye, helpless, alone — for of course 
I couldn’t expect a policeman to be within three 
blocks when needed — I would have the pleasure of 
anticipating death. Therefore, I viewed his 
breadth of shoulders with a physical shrinking, 
assuring myself meanwhile that my heart was 
still doing business at the old stand. I would em- 
ploy diplomacy. 

“Ah,” I murmured,” and where might your 
home be?” 

“Hades,” replied he, never ceasing to smirk. 
Crazy as a bedbug, or a March hare, or a — a 
lunatic, I thought. 

“Delightful climate. Had much snow late- 
ly?” I added. He advanced a step frowningly 
and thundered, “Sir!” in such a terrible manner 
that I instantly regretted my words. 


70 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“ Do not presume, creature/ ’ he advised. “ Sit 
down !” I backed away. “Sit down !” 

“Y-Yes,” I faltered as I dropped with a 
thud. “I was intending to, thank you-” 

“ That’s better,” said he, a smile again 
crossing his face, as he perched himself on a low 
desk. “Now we will have a little sociable chat 
— you and I. Let me again tell you I am City 
Devil No. 13, and a power in the Kingdom of 
Hades. When you consider the thousands of 
other cities where another of my race is installed, 
you will realize my importance in being No. 13. 
It is not often I honor a mortal by appearing 
visible to him, and you should feel flattered.” 

“I do, I assure you, Dick,” I said. 

“That’s right. I have a son,” he contin- 
ued, parental pride glowing in his eyes, “and a 
brighter youngster never grew a tail. But he is 
careless at times and thoughtless of results, 
like all boys. A boy’s a boy the world over — 
and under. It makes no difference whether he 
sprouts horns or grows football hair, he is the 
same through and through in deeds. Often, when 
exasperated at some of his pranks I have 
threatened to dehorn hi n or tie him to the bed 
post with his tail. All to no avail. But he’s bright. 
While out prowling around last night, playing 
hide-and-seek with some other imps, he lost the 
point of his spear and couldn’t find it again. I 
located it here — you see he loses his power when 
it is gone— and came to get it. You have it, I 
believe, in your pocket.” 

“Yes,” I answered, and then lied. “I was 
just going to ask you about it.” 

Again my coolness and composure were de- 
serting me. The light still puzzled me. If this 
was a man, where and how did he get this u n - 


IN THE FORM OF A MyN, 


71 


canny knowledge; and if he was as he repre- 
sented himself to be, a high official from the 
place of torments, why did he come attired in 
earthly costume? I remembered, though, the 
story of Faust and others. It seemed to be a 
habit, a fad, perhaps, among these — ah — beings, 
to masquerade as a mortal. Human he ap- 
peared to be ; yet I caught myself casting 
side-glances at him for his trade-marks — the 
cloven hoofs, the tail and the horns. These 
he possessed no more than I did, and I produc- 
ed the trinket and handed it to him, reason 
telling me it was a funny devil who had no tail, 
or the other copyrighted telltales. 

“That lie,” said the creature, beamingly, 
“shows what comes of keeping bad company.” 
He forthwith tossed the spearhead into his mouth 
from which there suddenly poured forth a vol- 
ume of smoke and blue flame, then opened his 
left hand and showed it on his palm. I need- 
ed no more convincing proof, accepting him 
from then on as a bona-fide article, the gospel 
truth. 

That was the introduction to an extended 
conversation between us, which forces me to 
state that I never met and never expect to 
meet again such a charming talker. Our top- 
ics were chosen from all subjects, as conversations 
go, from the cringing beggar in the street to 
the ermine gowned monarch on his throne ; from 
the innocent babe in his cradle to the fawning 
political healer ; from the filching of chickens from 
a neighbors hencoop to the love of a woman. 
On the latter he became quite eloquent and ex- 
ceedingly entertaining. And then, from dealing 
with man, his past and present doings, we be- 
came specific, and considered me as an individual. 


7 2 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Needless to say, I squirmed under many of his 
sallies. 

“But as a whole, Airlie,” he concluded, 
“you are a pretty decent fellow, even though 
you are an optician and are wealthy. You’d be 
handsome were it not for your face. You are 
a fine example, peerless, unsurpassed, of what a 
matinee’s idol ought not to be. Barring a 
monumental ego, which is acquired, and a second- 
grade intellect, which is a gift, you are no 
worse than the average human biped. But, 
speaking of opticians, would you like to see what 
is reserved for them; that is, the bad, the really 
bad ones?” 

“You bet,” I assented, readily, glad to 
escape his sarcastic shafts. He gave me the 
spearhead I had found and said : 

“ Hold that in your hand and say slowly, 
* Lived.’” 

I did as I was told, and instantly such a 
sight met my eyes that I was dazzled, bewildered. 
Had I the genius of a Milton or a Dante I 
might vouchsafe a vivid picture; but being a 
common man with no ability except in my line 
of business, I leave it to your imagination. 
But there was agony there. A sighing, and 
moaning, and pleading, and lamentation as of 
a wind through a million pine trees rose toward 
me like a living thing. I shivered as if a blast 
of cold air had struck me and I thought of my 
life on earth. But directly in front of us, walking 
up and down over a pebbly field, were a number 
of men with huge eyeglasses, six feet across, at 
least, on their noses. At each step they groaned, 
and down their faces ran streams of blood. 
My companion informed me they were doomed 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 73 

to wear these perpetually, never allowing them 
to skip off. 

“You can imagine, ” he added, consolingly, 
“what they are suffering/ ’ 

“I — I think so,” was my stammering reply 
as I reverted to some eyeglasses that had left 
my store with my approval. I touched my 
own nose and shuddered. “The curtain, 
please.” I pleaded. 

“Just as you say,” said No. 13, and then 
the scene vanished. “Now, over here,” pointing 
to the left, “is the debt shirkers field.” I opened 
my eyes in glee. Here was where I got even. 

“You notice,” explained Dick, “that each has 
a sack, open at both ends, which they are trying 
to fill with money. They either haven’t sense 
enough, or are too contrary, to see that if 
they used dollars first until the small hole at the 
bottom was choked, they could fill the sack 
with the smaller coins. But no; just as they 
were on earth, where they paid the little neces- 
sary bills and let the big ones go, they figure 
the same here. Some succeed halfway, then get 
too eager and the whole mass escapes again.” 

“What is their term?” I asked. 

“A hundred years for every dollar they 
shirked on earth !” 

“Cracky!” I ejaculated, certain persons 
bobbing up in my mind. The scene changed 
again. 

It was a valley, rock-strewn, dark and 
gloomy as a rainy day, and in it were gather- 
ed a crowd of workers. All were employed in 
wielding huge mallets of assorted sizes, but 
seemed to being doing it aimlessly, to no pur- 
pose, to no end. A grumbling and cursing and 
quarreling arose to my ears and I wondered. 


74 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


My companion was grinning as he looked at the 
sinners. 

“These?” I interrogated. 

“Are the kickers, grumblers, knockers and 
so forth. They were a despicable lot on earth 
and are shunned by all sinners here below. Year 
in and year out, their mallets growing heavier 
and heavier, they labor; till, finally, they are 
crushed beneath a piledriver, cremated and their 
ashes cast into a bottomless pit. It is thought 
best that nothing remains of them, that they 
be destroyed as far as it is possible to destroy 
anything. Although they help me and mine a 
vast deal, yet I dislike them. They are plague 
spots and boils among humanity and a nuisance 
down here. Just imagine their thoughts when 
their knocking does no good. Many of them 
were wealthy and not such bad creatures, but 
they encouraged the habit and are therefore 
punished with the rest.” Here Dick favored me 
with a suggestive look. 

“I hate the habit,” I hastened to say. 

“So? Then I must be mistaken. But it 
strikes me I was present at several little confabs. 
Possibly not.” His words were cutting, the 
more so because they were true. I started to lie 
out of it, then thought differently, feeling that 
I would be caught at it. 

“You are right, I guess,” I admitted. 

“You could be better,” said he. Then we 
both became silent. 

“Pve been thinking,” I said, rather fearfully,” 
that you are a strange species of a devil. I had 
the impression you were all bad.” 

“Not half as bad as we’re painted,” he quot- 
ed. 

“But you must do your work well,” I 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 


75 


argued. “ That in time would harden the softest 
heart/ ' 

“Oh,” answered he, shrugging his shoulders, 
“I get a good salary. Conscience is an adapt- 
able thing and can be stowed away in one's 
pocket— if the price is enough. But I've been 
thinking of asking for a raise, lately, what with 
the church hypocrites and politicians getting so 
numerous and the regular increase of my work.” 

“How much do you get?” I asked curiously. 

“Five thousand dollars a month.” 

“That is good wages,” I remarked. 

“Yes, but my wife soon makes it disappear. 
I am building a new house over by the Lake of 
Fire, but have a hard time meeting the payments. 
By the way, when you're down my way, drop in 
and I’ll show you around.” 

“No-o, thank you,” I replied. While talking, 
the scene has been constantly changing in a 
kaleidoscopic effect. But I was more interested 
in the being before me than in them. 

“How long have you been — ah — thus?” I 

asked, after a slight pause. 

“Close on to 2,000 years,” replied City 
Devil No. 13. Once I was a Roman general, and 
many's the city I took by the sword. The flash 
of weapons, the burning of villages and cities, the 
groan of the dying, the curses of the living, the 
supplications of the enemy, the praises of coun- 
trymen — all was meat and drink to me. To rush 
unawares on the enemy, pillage and destroy, 
and leave in a few hours but smoking ruins as 
monuments to cities that were — that was great ! 
Man, but those were magnificent times ! Such 
freedom of morals, such wars, such glorious, 
bloody sports ! You have nothing like it nowa- 
days. But then I enjoy myself.” 


76 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“Who is City Devil No. 1?” I asked. 

“Cain. First he had Babylon, then other 
cities, then Rome, London, Paris, and now New 
York. He’s commander-in-chief under Nick him- 
self. His position is an easy one, for there 
many claimants for it, but he retains it by 
right of first occupancy. But see, you’re missing 
this scene. This small corner is devoted to optical 
fakirs, so-called doctors and the like.” 

It may be that I was soaking in evil from 
my companion, for I felt a fiendish delight at 
his words. It is sufficient to state their punish- 
ment was in keeping with their deeds on earth. 
I approved of it, at which Dick grinned. 

“You’re learning,” said he. 

At that I became confused and expressed my 
satiety with the visions. No sooner had I 
uttered the words than we were back in my 
office with the creepy light. 

“If you’ll excuse me for a space,” said No. 
13, “I’ll go and see how things are getting on 
in the city. The council meets to-night, and 
some of the men need encouragement or 
they’ll become good. That is one of our best fields 
— politics. Nevertheless it is crowded for honors 
by others, such as church squabbles and high 
society. You’re not mixed in any of these — I 
wish you were — but as I intimated before, I have 
hopes for you. Well, I’ll be back in a few min 
utes.” 

He melted into the air and I sat alone. My 
head was all in a muddle with what I had seen 
and heard, and I was put to it to straighten it 
all out into a semblance of belief. 

Dick wasn’t such a bad fellow — he certainly 
was a charming entertainer. But was I doing 
right in allowing him to talk to me as he did ? 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 


77 


I laughed at the thought. Man, with all his 
vaunted ingenuity and boasted progress, had not 
yet devised methods for combating inhabitants 
of the other world. Perhaps, by this very 
association with evil, I could benefit morally. 
Good from evil ! Well, that was good. So I sat 
in deep thought, but finally wheeled around to 
my desk to work a little. 

“Oh, that Almighty Dollar !” said a voice in 
my ear, which I recognized. 

“You have no kick coming, ” I retorted 
over my shoulder. “Why don’t you say it is 
the root of all evil?” 

“Because it isn’t, my dear sir. Money is all 
right if not corrupted by evil desires. It is 
clean, solid metal, convenient for decorative 
purposes, but of no more value to the world 
than a tuft of grass. But a child is taught from 
infancy, by suggestive word and instructive 
gesture, to regard it in a worshipful attitude; he 
gets to love it, desires more of it, and finally is 
mastered by it. 

But the dollar is still the same. Here’s a 
woman working hard to support her family of 
children, who realizes its buying power precisely, 
yet appreciates far more what she can get for 
it in exchange than for the piece of stamped 
metal itself. She does not love it; she fears it. 
The same old dollar. The dollar moves on. A 
miser gets it. He is the slave to it out and out. 
absolute, loves it for itself alone, and is the best 
example of its fascinating power. Yet the dollar 
has not changed. The dollar moves on. Into 
the coffer of a rich man it glides, subverted to 
different uses; or else, disappears in the greedy, 
ambitious, capacious palm of a highly honored 
and trusted official of the people. The gambler 


78 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


owns it, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick 
maker ; the sport spends it, the housewife saves 
it ; the elder son goes to college on it, the comely 
daughter marries on it; the minister preaches 
for it, and the thief goes to prison because of it. 
On and on it goes, from one side of the continent 
to the other, never losing its value or magnet- 
ism, everlastingly demanding its tithe of sweat 
and blood, handled by a million men, employed 
in a million ways; till, worn thin by the touch 
of the worshipers, its end comes in the furnace. 
And yet it was always the same dollar, the 
same piece of metal taken from the ground. 
Then, whence its power, you say? 

“ Right deep down in what mortals call their 
soul. There is no more evil in a dollar than in 
a bleating lamb. It is because your neighbor 
wants yours and you want his, and the man 
across the street wants both that it is prized. 
Demand is what does it. Should every one want 
this button on my coat, it would become valu- 
able. And back of demand stalks ambition — 
the root of all evil — which is to be found in all 
men. And he who is devoid of ambition is 
happy, as witness the savages.” 

“You ought to be a preacher,” I exclaimed 
in admiration. 

“Beelzebub prevent it. No, Fm here for 
keeps, so what’s the use of wishing.” Here he 
closed one eye and said softly, “and I certainly 
do have a devil of a time.” 

I laughed and we sat in silence for a while, 
He fondled the spearhead in his hands. 

“Airlie,” said he, “you did me a good turn 
about this. Had you washed it there would 
have been heaps of trouble — for me. That’s why 
I feel like favoring you. Let me see. Suppose we 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 


79 


take a glimpse at a few of the different manu- 
facturers. Just keep your seat and I’ll bring them 
here — that is, their shops.” 

I acquiesced, anticipating a treat. It was 
evident City Devil No. 13 was a grateful being. 
He passed his hand once or twice through the 
scintillating air, and before us was a strange 
shop. 

“This is from New York,” explained Dick. 
“The boss is a genial old chap, but he leaves 
the running of this part of the business to an 
incompetent relative. Result — dissatisfaction. 
Men won’t work well under a man whom they 
know knows less than they do. They will shirk 
and idle and produce poor work. And they’ll 
find time to go out occasionally and ease that 
terrible dryness in the eosophagus. There is a 
good material among the workmen in New York 
for us. Whiskey is our main weapon of warfare 
there.” 

“Here’s another in the same city, only the 
boss is a slave-driver, a tyrant. That won’t 
do either, you know. Men become dissatisfied 
and uneasy and finally move on. Result-— the 
general run of work is inferior. 

“We now notice a very well laid-out shop, 
up-to-date, with latest machinery, the whole hav- 
ing a particularly neat appearance. The pro- 
prietor, however, is a dollar-slave and cuts 
wages. This naturally produces a shifty class 
of workmen ; and when they leave, things have 
a habit of sticking to their fingers or falling 
by themselves into their pockets. He gains 
nothing in the end by his close-fistedness.” 

“We will now take a jump out west to a city 
on a lake. There’s nothing of special interest 
about this one, except that the employer judges 


8o 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


his men as workmen only, and not as beings like 
himself. He is seriously affected with the in 
creasing hat-band disease, has social aspirations, 
looks at himself through an opera-glass, but 
reverses the instrument to peer at others. Show 
me the man who will work faithfully for such an 
employer. No, he will proceed to show the ‘ old 
man’ a trick or two, and he usually succeeds.” 

“What would be an ideal place, Dick?” I 
asked, as the views came to an end. 

“One where the employer was one of the 
boys, wise of the trade, paid high salaries, 
bought the best to be had, recognized faithful 
ness, encouraged promotion, strict, yet not too 
hard, allowed privileges such as half-day Satur- 
days, and as a basis for it all, was a gentleman. 
But I’m glad there are few such.” 

“There are some, then?” I inferred. 

“Yes, one or two. But even they have some 
drawback.” 

“What are the objections as to my place?” 
I interrogated, selfishly seeking for gain. 

“Well, Airlie, you have many faults,” 
criticized my Roman acquaintance. “You are 
rather backward in paying good wages, which 
repels others from seeking employment and 
discourages the present employees. For instance, 
your salesmen have a sneaking idea they are 
worth more and could get it elsewhere. But 
they handle money here, with few restrictions, 
and — ah, you understand. You are also prone 
to overlook carelessness, a bad habit. You 
are somewhat given to favoritism — bad for your 
employees’ peace of mind. And, as I said before, 
close your ears to a lot of tales told out of school. 
Otherwise, in a matter of dealing with your 
customers, you are too confounded honest to 


IN THE FORM OF A MAN. 8l 

suit me. I’d like to have you under my wing, at 
home, you know — but you worry me.” 

“I prefer it as it is,” I told him with a 
shudder. 

“Well, well, we won’t quarrel about it. 
What’s that?” 

I listened intently but could hear no sound. 
My eyes sought his face. 

“Only a suicide,” he explained. “Shot him- 
self; made a mistake and took some one else’s 
money; caught at it and fled— to us. And now I 
think I’ll go.” 

“I have certainly enjoyed your visit,” I 
said. “There are several personal questions I 
would have liked answered.” 

“You wish for too much. Even what you 
have seen and heard I must now cause you to 
forget.” 

“But I don’t want to forget,” I protested. 

“ Can’t be helped.” He waved his hand be- 
fore my face. “For three years,” said he, in 
solemn tones, “all memory of this night shall 
pass from your mind, at which time you will 
again recall it in the semblance of a dream. I 
command it, I, Dictidienses, City Devil No. 13.” 

I slept late the next day and awoke very 
fatigued. Not a thing did I remember of what 
happened after my bookkeeper left me, not even 
how I got home. But now the specified time is 
come and gone and I jot the incident down as 
best I can. Even I cannot say, now, whether it 
was really all a dream, or, as I sometimes try 
to persuade myself, an unusual reality. 















An Epoch-Maker. 


“Fate is a strange thing, when you come to 
think about it. It takes a slap at a man, but 
misses and knocks another near him into a com- 
plicated mass. Then in recovering from the mis- 
cue, it gives a back-hander to the first intended 
victim and annihilates him. Very roundabout 
in its methods, sometimes. Yet nevertheless cer- 
tain, sure, inevitable.” 

I was indulging in a little philosophy, partly 
for my own benefit, and partly for that of my 
chief assistant, Messer, who k was opening the 
Sunday mail. My little soliloquy had been caused 
by an article in the paper I had been reading. 
As no reply came from my employee, I glanced 
over at him. 

“Yes, sir,” answered he. 

“Smedley is dead,” I told him. 

“$36. At last that old deadbeat, Burlton, 
digs up.” Then he looked up at me and said 
innocently, “What did you say, Mr. Airlie?” 

“Smedley is dead,” I repeated. “Doubtless 
you remember him.” 

“Well, I have occasion to,” he replied, 
nettled. I smiled in sympathy, for I, too, had 
been caught in one of the schemes of the dead 
man, who had had an office directly above my 


84 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


store, and who had been a frequent caller. Of 
course, I was better able to stand the loss, but 
to Messer it had been almost a knockout. Ac- 
cordingly I sympathized. 

“But you never heard about him and the 
colored chemist, did you?” I asked. I knew he 
hadn’t. 

“Well, now that both are dead, I will tell 
you. But first stop smoking that Turkish abomi- 
nation. Try this imported firecracker.” 


The day was sultry, terribly hot. The sun 
rode high in the milky blue heavens, and beat 
down its merciless rays on the sweltering city. 
Prostration was abroad in the streets, which were 
like ovens. The occasional breeze that gathered 
the dust into little eddies, was stifling in its dry 
warmth. The heat radiated in quivering waves 
from the blistering rails and the glistening 
cobblestones, and all over was an ominous 
quiet. Business was practically dead. Here and 
there a pedestrian fretted along from shadow to 
shadow in damp, sticky discomfort, yet paused 
occasionally to cast a protesting glance at the 
silvery thread of the mercury as it persistently, 
relentlessly, crawled upward toward bloodheat. 
Those who could remained indoors, where the 
atmosphere was more agreeable, thanks to the 
protecting walls and that blessing to moderns, the 
electric fan. It was hot. 

Seemingly unconscious of this, a man came 
quickly along the street as if on a matter of 
grave importance, and turned in sharply at the 
entrance to a high building. He tilted his hat 
back from a dry brow, while he earnestly scanned 
the directory board. On his face was a look as 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


85 


of one who has taken a sudden resolution. A 
moment later, apparently satisfied with his scru- 
tiny, he stepped into an elevator, grunted ‘se- 
cond/ and was quickly granted his request. 
Walking briskly along the hall, he came to a 
door on which was printed : 

JOHN K. SMEDLEY, 

Loan Broker and Promoter. 

An instant’s hesitation and the man opened the 
door and entered. 

The interior of the office was fitted up in 
simple style. A couple of desks, with a railing in 
front, three or four chairs, and a large bookcase 
filled with books, were the chief adornments. 
On the walls hung a few cheap prints of famous 
paintings. There was but two occupants : a man 
writing at one of the desks, and a girl at the 
typewriter. The former was the owner of the 
name on the door. 

He was a comparative stranger in the city, 
yet in his short residence he had established a 
reputation for shrewdness obtained by methods 
at which an honest man would look askance. 
He was an ardent believer in looking after the 
interests of No. 1, regardless of the cost to oth- 
ers; and he would sacrifice a friend to his God- 
dess, Ambition, with as little compunction as he 
felt when he crushed a flower beneath his heel. A 
follower of this rule usually succeeds in getting 
himself heartily disliked; but this disapproval, 
this arrayal of adverse public opinion, worried 
John K. Smedley not a bit. A self-made man, in- 
dependent of thought, he pushed his way through 
life, heedless of the muttered imprecations heaped 
on him by those he had elbowed aside. Bril- 


86 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


liant and aggressive, ambitious and unscrupulous, 
he was the vital force in many large deals, the 
focus-point of dynamic energy; and, though 
secretly and openedly reviled by fellowmen, was 
acknowledged by them to be a man of brains 
and worthy of acquaintance. 

The visitor stood for a moment as if un- 
decided. He had a splendid physique, standing 
over six feet tall and built in proportion. His 
was a figure that cause people to turn in passing 
and take another look; moreover there was a 
peculiarity about the head and face that was 
very noticeable. A very pale, milky complexion, 
such as is possessed by indoor workers; hair 
raven black and exceedingly curly, or bushy 
rather; a large flat nose with prominent 
nostrils; a wide, thick-lipped mouth; a pair of 
snapping black eyes, from which leaped intelli- 
gence, one might say — these were the striking 
parts of his features. Save for the womanly 
whiteness of the skin, the head might have be- 
longed to a full-blooded African. Otherwise he 
was dressed quite plainly, the attire of a man of 
moderate means. 

Mr. Smedley took in all this at a glance 
with unconscious admiration, for strength in 
man appealed to him, not being very large him- 
self. The visitor, also, had not been idle with 
his eyes and being satisfied with appearances, 
advanced and said : 

“Mr. John K. Smedley, I presume?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied that individual, running 
a hand through his iron-grey hair. “What can 
I do for you?” 

“I would like to speak to you in private.” 

“I am very busy, just now,” said the money- 
ed man. “Could you call a couple of hours later 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


87 


or to-morrow ?” 

“No,” replied the giant. “I am pressed for 
time myself and won’t detain you long.” 

“Very well. Just step this way,” and he 
beckoned toward a door back of him When 
they were both in the private office, Smedley 
closed the door and turning to his companion, 
said abruptly, 

“Now, what is it?” 

“Let me first introduce myself,” said the 
stranger. “My name is A. Lincoln Sabler. My 
card. I heard of you as a man of considerable 
means, who was not adverse to adopting new 
ideas and inventions, one who was a friend to 
Science and Art. Am I right?” 

“Proceed,” answered Smedley, in acknow- 
ledgement. 

“Of course what transpires here is secret,” 
said Mr. Sabler, questioningly. 

“That is perfectly understood.” 

“To the point then. I have here,” said 
Sabler, taking a small vial from his pocket and 
glancing around uneasily,” a liquid preparation 
that is destined to become one of the grandest 
discoveries of modern times, a magnificient gift to 
science. It is of inestimable value, a priceless 
boon, an epoch-making ” 

“ Come, come, man,” interrupted Smedley, ir- 
ritably, “I am notin the patent medicine busi- 
ness.” 

“Sir, you are mistaken,” replied the other 
coldly. “This is not a patent medicine; it is 
something the like of which the world seldom sees 
— a perfectly original discovery. Once made 
known it will startle the earth, nations will be 
disturbed and wars may result.” 

Smedley was angry. “Perhaps,” he snapped,” 


88 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


you think my time is valueless, to keep me 
here listening to such balderdash.” 

“Be patient, my dear sir,” remonstrated his 
companion. “I expected you to think as you 
have. You’ll believe me crazy in a moment, but 
be calm and your name will be linked with mine 
to go thundering down the coming ages as epoch- 
makers. Posterity will pause before our statues 
and say, ‘The originators of universal color.* Let 
me explain. This small vial contains that which 
will change a black man white ! The millions of 
colored people who now inhabit the globe can 
rebel against the laws of nature and become as 
white as any Caucasian, by using this liquid. 
They ” 

“Enough/* ejaculated the capitalist, rising 
suddenly to his feet. “You look like you had 

good common-sense, but you talk like a d n 

fool. I*ve heard enough.** 

“Be quiet just a moment, sir,” protested the 
other, rising also. “Listen. What color am I?** 

“White, of course.** 

“Ah, that’s where you err. My face and 
hands are white, yes, but the rest of my body 
is as black as any ebony. Be seated, please.’* He 
said this in a calm yet commanding manner, and 
the promoter subsided into his chair. 

“Thirty-nine years ago,” began the strange 
man, “there was born to freedom in the north, 
a boy of colored parents. The babe was naturally 
black, a very dark black. But fate displayed 
one of its freakish fancies and endowed the 
new-born with unusual qualities. Of a thoughtful, 
studious, inquisitive turn of mind, he was also 
extremely sensitive as to his color. His par- 
ents were pretty well fixed and gave their son 
the best education one of his race could then 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


89 


obtain. But wherever he went, in school, college, 
or at home, he took with him a morbid longing 
for a white skin. He realized the tremendous 
value it possessed over his own, and one day in 
his agony of spirit a desperate resolution entered 
his breast — he would try to change his birthright, 
his color. As stated before, he was very studious 
and he applied himself with great diligence to 
the mysteries of chemistry. For fifteen years he 
persevered at the heart-breaking, Augean task 
he had set himself, and had almost given up 
hope when one day ” Here he paused. 

“What happened ?” asked the listener with 
interest. 

“ He discovered the secret ! That man was my- 
self. For months and months I bathed my hands 
and forearms, watching them with ecstacy 
gradually grow whiter and whiter. I was 
finally compelled to wear gloves so as not to 
excite comment. When my hand had attained the 
appearance you now see them, I retired to a 
secluded spot and tried my face, trembling with 
anticipation. One year after my discovery I ap- 
peared among people again, apparenty a white 
man, and carrying with me a secret, the immense 
value of which I alone knew. For another year 
I lived with joy in my heart and then had the 
satisfaction of knowing the change was perman- 
ent.” 

A gust of hot air came in the window, scat- 
tering some loose papers onto the floor; then 
was gone again, leaving a sense of oppression 
in the room. From the street below rose the 
cry of a newsboy and the whirring of electric 
cars. The two men sat facing each other, the 
one alert, mystified; the other perspiring, en- 
thusiastic. 


go 


ALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“Mr. Sabler,” said the now thoroughly in- 
terested capitalist, “you seem to be speaking 
the truth, but what you say is so strange, so 
utterly unbelievable, that I confess I doubt you.” 

“Allow me to present more convincing 
proof,” said the discoverer. “May I disrobe 
here — that is partially?” He got the permis- 
sion. 

The man arose and stripped to the waist, 
when he presented an astonishing sight. His 
face and neck, and his arms from the elbows 
down, were perfectly white, while the rest of his 
body that was bare was of the darkest night. 

“You see,” he exclaimed, exultingly, “I spoke 
the truth. Examine me and prove to yourself 
there is no deception. Notice my features and 
hair — are they not those of a negro?” 

“It is certainly — ah — h — odd,” replied Smed- 
ley, feeling the negro’s arm and examining the 
skin closely. “But it might be the freak of a 
birth.” 

“True, it might. But I have another proof. 
If you consent, I will make my upper left arm 
white. I have so perfected my discovery that it 
requires but two weeks application to produce 
the desired results. Are you willing to share in 
the fame that will be obtained? Are you con- 
vinced of my sincerity, of my sanity?” 

Smedley thought for a minute. “Apply some 
of it now,” he said. 

The man uncorked the vial, poured some of 
the liquid into the palm of one hand and rubbed 
his arm vigorously with it. 

“At first,” he said, “it pains considerably, 
for it is entirely changing the structure of the 
cells of the skin. But each succeeding application 
is less painful. You might rub it on your hand 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


91 


and it would only feel like water.” 

“ Leave this vial vith me, Mr. Sabler,” said 
Smedley, a sudden thought making his eyes 
glisten. “Keep that up on your arm and call 
again in a week. Is that satisfactory?” 

The discoverer demurred a moment and then 
consented. He dressed himself in silence, then 
passed out of the office, calmly, with elasticity 
in his step and pride in his bearing. Yet, ere 
he went into the heated streets, he paused and 
mopped from his forehead, beads of cold sweat. 

After he was gone Smedley sat and thought. 
If this thing were possible — and the proofs sub- 
mitted were very convincing — there were millions 
in it. He realized how the colored people would 
grasp at the new discovery, paying all they 
could afford for it; how the great increase of 
white people and the corresponding decrease 
of blacks would shatter the foundations of the 
social system and cause new laws to be enacted. 
The outlook was stunning, demoralizing. And to 
think, he would be responsible for all this to a 
great extent. Of course, there was Sabler, the 
originator, but — here was that same thought 
come again. Once let him gain possession of the 
secret and the rest would be easy. Sabler could 
be bought off or, if he refused, could be shown to 
the public as the first subject on whom he, Smed- 
ley, had experimented. But he must go slow. Sab- 
ler was very wise and would be desperate if his 
life-work were stolen from him. He could ac- 
complish it, however, for the problem seemed 
easy to solve and the prospects, the rewards, 
were tremendous. 

Smedley procured another small vial and 
pouring about half of the contents of the first into 
it, sent it with a request to analyze to an ac- 


92 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


quaintance of his, one of the finest chemists in the 
country. A few days later a reply was received 
from the great man, and ran as follows : 

“I regret that I am unable to fully report on 
what you sent me lately. There is one in- 
gredient in the solution, apparently the chief 
one, which I cannot name. It is one of the few 
cases I have ever had baffle me, but I assure you 
it was only after a most searching analysis, for I 
was determined not to give in. Kindly send me 
particulars as to the use of the liquid and I 
will again attempt what I now consider the 
impossible.” Then followed a short list of the 
minor ingredients and the approximate proportion 
to the whole. 

Smedley gave an exclamation of disappoint- 
ment and anger as he read the note. It was 
evident he must try some other way of getting 
the formula for, of course, he couldn’t tell his 
friend the nature of the invention. And though 
he racked his fertile brain for schemes and 
methods, he at last came to the conclusion that 
from Sabler only, could be gotten the secret. 

As for the strange unknown chemist, he was 
passing the days in his lonely, isolated cottage 
near the city limits. He lived all alone with a 
big Newfoundland dog and for several days at a 
time he would not appear out of doors. The 
infrequent passersby of his little home were made 
aware of its habitation only by the occasional 
wreath of smoke that curled up from the single 
chimney. Children made wide detours to keep 
from passing it, for rumors were rife in the 
neighborhood of strange noises and goings-on in 
the low, squatty cottage. Weeds grew rank and 
undisturbed around the place, their luxuriance 
partly concealing the lower half of the windows. 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


93 


An owl had taken up quarters in an old tree 
near by and at night added to the eeriness of 
the surroundings by its inquiring, mournful hoot. 
And when night had fallen and the house was but 
a deeper blot against the darkness, and the dogs 
barked in the distance, and cats spat and quar- 
reled, it were indeed a brave heart who ventured 
in the neighborhood. 

But had this same venturesome body entered 
the cottage, and cast aside his superstitious 
fears, he would have found just a bachelor’s home, 
somewhat untidy, and nothing else. Yes, he 
would; he would have noticed that the mind of 
the occupant ran to bottles, mortars, crucibles, 
Florentine flasks, graduated tubes, strange ap- 
paratuses — in fact, everything that is necessary 
to a chemist shop. And aside from the surprised 
greeting of the owner, caused by the unexpected 
visit, nothing in his demeanor would have re- 
motely suggested connection with the super- 
natural, or anything not recognized by law or 
approved by public opinion. The dog would 
have been seen crouched by the side of his mast- 
er, a good natured, friendly dog. Then, after a 
conversation in which the chemist showed his 
very human side, the guest would have gone 
forth, angry at the vile stories that circulated 
about a man with a hobby, who kept strictly to 
himself and attended to his own affairs. And one 
man would have been convinced of the con- 
trariness of rumor and the meddlesomeness of 
people. 

After Sabler left the promoter he went 
straight home, first purchasing some necessary 
supplies. The sun was already sinking in golden 
splendor, sending out broad arms far up into the 
sky as if bidding good-by to the world. Heat 


94 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


lightning played near the horizon in the north, 
and a cooling breeze sprang from the region of 
the setting snn. The shafts of yellow light 
touched the weeds around the humble home and 
caressed their gray, heat-withered stalks into 
columns of gold. The lengthening shadows 
lingered as if loath to hide this world of beauty 
and peace. From afar came the faint halloos 
and laughter of happy children. Nature was 
gliding into a peaceful sleep. 

The chemist took off his hat in this hallow- 
ed scene, stroked the head of his dog affection- 
ately and spoke to him. He loved thisTaithful 
old companion very much and always confided in 
him. 

“The world is pretty, General,” he said, 
“very, very pretty. Some folks live in ignorance 
of this, but it’s a fact, old doggie, just the 
same. They never see any beauty in a grass 
hopper’s wings nor marvel at the skill of the ant. 
They are disgusted at the sight of these weeds, 
but never stop to think that everything is put 
here for a purpose. The setting of the sun, the 
thousand glories of which they miss, means to 
them but the end of a day and the beginning of 
a night of pleasure. Did they but lift their eyes 
from themselves for a space and gaze at the 
evening star, they would come to appreciate the 
greatness of the universe and the goodness of God. 
What presumption to think in such narrow cir- 
cles when they are so incomplete, so insignificant 
themselves. And yet ” 

He paused and seated himself on the low 
steps. For a long time he mused, gazing straight 
ahead of him, while the light from the west died 
down into a twilight, deepened into darkness, and 
the stars twinkled forth in the bed of the sky 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


95 


like diamonds in a robe of purple. The lightning 
flashed more visibly, yet was partly hidden by 
risingfearth vapors. The moon climbed silently 
intojthe vault above, like a huge cheese. And 
still the man on the steps mused. 

“Come here, General,” he finally said. When 
the dog obeyed, he threw one arm lovingly 
around the animal’s neck and stroked his head. 
“ There are some things, General, we can’t under- 
stand. We are given the knowledge of good 
and evil, but sometimes it is very hard, very 
hard, to decide which is which. For instance, 
many’s the time the doubt has come to me 
whether or not I am doing right by giving to 
the world such knowledge as I possess. We are 
tampering with nature, doggie, tampering with 
that which was made to be. Then why do I 
continue? Is it for money, or is it for fame? 
Partly for the last, but chiefly for the first. Did 
you know, my dear friend, that we are nearing 
the bottom of our little horde? That means for 
you no more bones and for me no more meat. 
It means the giving up of my beloved work for 
work not congenial. And why not? Am I any 
better than other men? Not a bit. But don’t 
you think I have some excuse for wanting to suc- 
ceed for money’s sake? Thank you.” 

He looked off into the silence of the stars and 
thought, “General,” he resumed, “many a man 
has started out to work for the good of humanity 
and has ended fey becoming selfish. And I am be- 
come selfish. Would my race be happier if possess- 
ed of my secret? Would they hail me as a 
genius or curse me as the cause of unhappiness? 
These are questions it is not given me to answer. 
But this I know, doggie, that none other than 
me shall reap the rewards or hide from the de- 


9 6 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


nunciations. Often I think that it would be a 
real benefit to the living, but it would not change 
nature as to posterity. That alone shows the 
feebleness of my efforts. Come, I will leave it all 
to you. Bark and I will go ahead; be silent and 
so will I.” 

There was a rustle in the weeds close by. The 
dog was alert in an instant and ‘Woof, Woof/ 
came in subdued barks from his throat. The 
master rose as if decided, a faint smile playing 
on his odd face, and entered the house. 

One week from the day he first entered the 
office of the promoter, Sabler again appeared. 
Smedley greeted him warmly and taking him 
into the private office, had him bare his arm. 
The change was remarkable, the tint of the skin 
now being the yellowish hue common to the mu- 
latto. 

“Mr. Sabler,” said Smedley, amiably, “I 
have been thinking over your proposition very 
seriously and am almost convinced of its sin- 
cerity. If I should back you up financially, I 
must know the secret of making the preparation.” 

“That would be a natural desire for you,” 
said the ex-colored man, rolling down his sleeve. 
“But you will agree with me, that I must be 
cautious in a case where so much is at stake. I 
realize more than anyone the worth of the dis- 
covery to ourselves and to mankind. The future 
income seems to be of vast proportions, so I can 
afford to be generous. If you finally agree to aid 
me, I will sell you a half interest for $5000.00 and 
you sign a contract before a notary, stating 
that I am the sole discoverer and you the financier 
backing me. In that way only can we come to 
terms.” 

“Very well,” acquiesced Smedley. “But can 


AN EPOCH-MAKER 


97 


the liquid be manufactured in large quantities ?” 

“Yes. The bulk of the ingredients is simple. 
But the one that lends to the discovery its pecu- 
liar value is a by-product, which I alone know 
how to produce. The mother product is found 
in considerable quantities in different parts of 
the earth, so there is no danger of an exhaus- 
tion of the supply.” 

“Have you the formula with you?” asked 
Smedley, unconcernedly. 

“No,” replied Sabler; “I never trusted it to 
paper.” 

“Well, bring it with you on paper when you 
come next week, and if I have not changed my 
mind, I will have the money and contract ready 
for you. Good-day.” 

When Sabler got outside he found that the 
moving masses of fleecy clouds had coalesced and 
now formed a blanket of solemn gray. The smell 
of rain was in his nostrils, and he settled into 
a long springy stride. People hurried by with 
worried faces as they glanced at the sullen dome 
above them. Awnings were pulled up with a 
bang, drivers gave vicious cuts to their horses, 
and everywhere things were being made snug 
for the coming storm. Nature was about to 
have her inning, and man with his petty affairs 
must wait. Sabler viewed the sombre aspect 
unmoved — he could stand a little wetting. 

It was a long way home, but the storm held 
off till he turned into the last quarter mile of 
semi-country road, when a few large drops 
splashed in front of him. Cobwebs floated 
against his face and an occasional toad hopped 
out of his way. There was a low growl as of 
impatience, and the chemist barely closed his 
door when the floodgates were opened and the 


98 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

downpour began. 

The chemist was a profound reader, an enthu- 
siast about science. Economical with his small 
fortune, he had yet gathered around him a consid- 
erable collection of books dear to his heart and 
which were wife, relatives and friends. To them 
he appealed in his hours of despair, and from 
them he gained his pleasures. And so on this 
evening, after a light supper, he settled himself 
for a few hours of complete enjoyment. 

Born of somewhat ignorant parents, he was 
misunderstood by them. And when they died, ex- 
pressing deep regrets that he was not of them, he 
buried his sorrow in his work, which work culmi- 
nated in the result as noted. 

As the evening wore on the storm grew 
worse. The chemist stirred uneasily in his chair 
turned the light up more and again settled him- 
self. And as he read there came a slight scraping 
across the floor and a pressure on his foot 
which, in his absorption he did not notice. And 
the storm bellowed and blew and rained in in- 
creasing fury. 

Suddenly there came an extra loud crash of 
thunder which brought the chemist to his senses 
with a snort, while a dread feeling took pos- 
session of him. He felt as though something had 
happened or was about to happen. Glancing 
around in perplexity he saw his dog crouched be- 
side him, his head on his masters foot. He 
reached down to pat him, but started back in 
terror as the head slipped off his foot with a dull 
thud. The dog was dead. 

“Dear old General, dear old doggie,” mur- 
mured the man, dropping on his knees while the 
moisture dimmed his eyes. “So you have left 
me at last. Faithful to the end, a most de- 


AN EPOCH - MAKER. 


99 


voted friend. And I was ignorant of yonr last 
magnificent tribute of love. Poor old General.” 

The master was silent for a long time, while 
the rain beat down on the house and rattled the 
door and windows. Then rising and folding his 
arms, he surveyed the lifeless body of his friend. 

“General, you are old,” he mused. “You saw 
my first burst of enthusiasm and the final re- 
sult. With me you were happy and with me you 
were sad. When will I find such another? And 
yet I think it is best you went first, for there 
has come to me lately the feeling that my days 
are numbered, that life is to be a failure. To- 
morrow you shall be buried as becomes your 
death, and I will leave this house forever.” 

He dragged the dog into a corner and care- 
fully spread a cloth over him. And outside the 
scpiall seemed to have spent its fury, the rumbl- 
ings gradually dying away to the north, while 
the water dripped musically from the eaves into 
the pools beneath. And in the mind of the lone- 
ly man was a settled peace and a determined 
resolution. 

The next morning, before the sun had time 
to rob the earth of its fresh, fragrant sweetness, 
Sabler buried his dog and planted some wild 
flowers on the grave. 

“My dear old General, that is all,” he solilo- 
quized. “You are at rest but I— I — what is the 
use, what is the use?” 

To Smedley, the man who was scheming to 
rob another of an idea of immense worth, the 
seven days passed very slowly. On the seventh 
he entered his private office and taking a re- 
volver from his hip-pocket, examined it carefully 
and placed it in his desk. Then, taking a small 
sack such as is used by banks for carrying mon- 


IOO 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


ey, he stuffed it full of old papers, and after 
tying it neatly put it in the safe. 

When the colored chemist arrived, the regular 
routine work of the day was over. Smedley dis- 
missed his stenographer and locked the door. 
The two men seated themselves in the inner room. 

“And now,” said Mr. Smedley, let’s take a 
look at that arm of yours.” 

The promoter felt a thrill of satisfaction as 
he noticed that the entire arm was of the same 
pure, pinkish whiteness. 

“My dear man,” said he, warming up to his 
preconceived idea, “your fortune is made and 
your name will be more famous than those of 
Newton, Bacon, Faraday and others. I am 
with you heart and soul. You can perceive I am 
ready for you,” and he nodded toward the sack 
on his desk. “There are $5000.00 in there and— 
would you mind letting me see the formula?” 

The chemist was off his guard. He was a 
babe in knowledge of the ways of the world. The 
wealth and honor of which he had dreamed for 
years, now being about to be realized, robbed 
him of his caution and he handed the precious 
slip of paper to the schemer. The face of the 
latter glowed with excitement and satisfaction as 
his eyes glanced eagerly over the lucid explan- 
ation, clear even to him. His features hardened 
into stern lines and he looked up at the man 
before him. 

“This is perfectly correct?” he asked. 

“I swear it,” answered the other, still igno- 
rant of Smedley’s intention. 

“Then I believe that is all I want of you,” 
was the astonishing statement of the capitalist. 
“You can go.” 

Sabler looked at the little man in bewilder- 


AN EPOCH-MAKER. 


IOI 


ment. “What — what do you mean?” he stam- 
mered. 

“I mean,” said the scoundrel, icily, “that I 
have the formula and intend to keep it. I will 
be the discoverer of this and you my assistant, 
if you wish. If not, there is the door.” 

Intelligence was slow to dawn on the young- 
er man, but when it did he rose to his full height, 
the muscles on his body undulating as if impa- 
tient to be in action, while a terrible deter- 
mination spread over his face. 

“Then you intend to rob me,” he muttered 
hoarsely. 

“Ha, ha! you can call it that,” laughed 
Smedley derisively yet with a trace of uneasi- 
ness. “The world will never know the difference. 
My word is better than yours and you’d be 
known as an ungrateful upstart.” 

Sabler trembled in all his limbs. His face 
became deathly white. His nostrils dilated and 
fell; and he breathed heavily through his clinch- 
ed teeth. Leaning suddenly forward he hissed, 
“Thief, liar, do you think you can tear from 
me that which took me fifteen years to accom- 
plish? Do you think I will allow such power to 
pass into the hands of a perjurer and deceiver? 
Not content to be one of two on a throne you 
want to wield the sceptre alone, to become a 
curse to humanity. At the cost of your life I will 
have it.” He sprang forward. 

“Halt!” commanded Smedley, thrusting his 
revolver before him and backing toward the safe. 
“I, also, am desperate, and will kill you if you 
advance a ” 

The sentence was interrupted, for the frenzied 
inventor gave a lightning lunge and grappled. 
In one hand there was a flash ol steel. 


102 


TALES 0 P AN OPTICIAN. 


The two were ill-matched, but Smedley was 
wiry and realized he was fighting for his life. A 
terrible twist of the wrist and the revolver rat- 
tled on the floor. Another quick movement, a 
sudden gleam through the air, a gasp of agony 
and the smaller man was out of the contest 
with blood gushing from a wound in his side. 
Dropping the knife, the victor extracted the pa- 
per from the fallen man’s pocket; then struck a 
match and applied it to the valuable formula, 
which in a few minutes wafted to the floor in 
charred remains. Then only did the man seem 
to realize what he had done. 

“My God!” he muttered, pressing his hands 
to his head. “A murderer! And this is the end 
of it all !” 

Then the instinct of self-preservation caused 
him to suddenly drop on one knee by the side 
of the silent figure, and wiping the knife thereon, 
place it in his pocket. He made a hasty ex- 
amination of the wound, then rose to his feet. 

“ Thank God! It is not fatal, only a flesh 
cut.” 

He glided out of the room after breaking the 
vial on the desk, and turned the key on the out- 
side. For a minute he paused to regain his 
breath. He heard the janitor pass by the door, 
his buckets and dustpans jangling noisily, and he 
leaned against the wall in sudden terror. But the 
danger passed on, and waiting a little longer he 
walked out, locking the door behind him, but 
dropping the key at his feet. Then, summoning 
all his self-possession, he strode rapidly down 
the hallway; and as he went nearer to safety, 
a thought was born in his breast, a thought 
that took him back to his dead dog, General. 
And then he was gone. 


EPOCH- MAKE H. 163 

A month was come and gone ere Mr. John 
J. Smedley again entered his office. The janitor 
had found him unconscious two hours after the 
fight. The newspapers informed the public, who 
laughed and wondered at the absurdity of it, 
that he had accidently cut himself. But that 
was all they could learn, and the matter was 
soon forgotten in the rush of other news. 

A few days after his return, Smedley’s atten- 
tion was attracted to an article in the paper. It 
was entitled ‘A Mysterious Accident/ and ran as 
follows : 

i ‘Two men were run over and instantly killed 
by the North-bound Limited, late last night, a 
few miles north of the city. One of the victims 
was a white man, the other a colored man. Sev- 
eral hundred yeards separated the remains of the 
two men. Those of the negro were badly man- 
gled and were minus the head, the left arm, and 
the right forearm. The body of the white man 
could not be found, and strange to say, the left 
arm, the head, and the right forearm, were all 
that was left of him. As the killing occured near 
a deep swift part of the river ; it is presumed the 
missing parts of both men were cast by the train 
into the stream and carried away. The coinci- 
dence, however, is none the less remarkable, and 
something of which the railroad men cannot 
recall a parallel. The authorities are investiga- 
ting the case and feel confident of unravelling the 
mystery / y 

The paper fell from Smedley’s hands, and he 
sat in his chair, motionless, staring blankly 
before him. He understood. Was it an accident 
or — was it a suicide? The answer seemed so 
clear to him that his mind was benumbed, he felt 
sick. He had engaged in various shady transac- 


104 tales of an optician. 

tions during liis life, yet never before had he felt 
directly responsible for a fellow-being’s death. His 
slumbering conscience was at last awake and 
the pinpoints of remorse prodded deep. 

The world was awaiting an explanation yet 
— would it benefit them to know? Would they 
believe him if he did explain? He thought not. 
But he picked up his pen and vowed that poster- 
ity should know, after his death. 

So, in the days that followed, when every- 
one was puzzling over the tragedy, he was 
silent; he, the one man who could tell that 
the remains were not those of two men, but of 
one, and that one a colored man with a secret 
in his breast, the greatness of which the world 
would never, never, know. 


A Waiting Game. 


If anyone had put the question generally 
“Who is the favoved suitor of Jessie Merne?” 
the chorus would have gone up “ Joe Seawall/ ’ 
And this is an opinion anyone would have got, 
had one seen the afore-mentioned gentleman in 
such constant attendance upon the afore-men- 
tioned lady, who, according to hearsay and the 
unquestionable verdict of gossips, had never 
shown other than pleasure at this devotion. 
True, there were many others who basked in the 
light of her eyes : Dr. Fergueson, the ambitious 
young physician who was making a name for 
himself; John A. Bronson, the staid business 
man, rising forty, with his inevitable cigar and 
his “Yes, Miss” and “No, Miss;” nervous, 
wealthy Bertie Mann, taking himself so serious- 
ly, yet snatching time from his beloved horses 
to devote to his charmer; lawyers, clerks, and so 
on. These were the majority, liking and not un- 
liked, but standing just without that sacred 
realm wherein the subjects are happy in the sub- 
title 1 favorite/ And it seems that out of this 
waiting list, with calm assurance, public opinion 
had chosen Joe Seawall, and dubbed him, the 
favored suitor. 

It goes to show, however, that like all h tl - 


lo6 TALES OF AW OtTiCIAtf. 

man journeyings into unknown waters, public 
opinion was in danger of making false moves. 
Joe Seawall knew, to his own daily anxiety, that 
the favorite according to tlis world’s judgement 
and the favorite in the lady’s eyes, are two sep- 
arate and distinct personages. He approved of 
the majority’s decision, and had he had his way 
would have settled the question long ago; but it 
takes two to make a bargain, as everyone 
knows. Miss Jessie Merne certainly liked him 
very much and doubtless did give him a little 
more time than she did to others, but she al- 
ways forestalled him before he came to the cru- 
cial question. 

“ I understand what you mean, Joe,” she 
would interrupt. “ Don’t say any more, please. 
Just let us be friends. I like you and you like 
me and we enjoy each other’s company. Then 
why spoil it all. So we’ll continue to be just 
good friends, won’t we, Joe?” 

Joe was not willing to forever continue to be 
just good friends, but he felt that to press his 
suit too arduously was to risk even that favor. 
For there were none among her many callers at 
her home near the big Park who would not be 
delighted to fill his shoes. And he feared there 
were some who might fill them too acceptably. 
So he dangled on her hook, patiently waiting, 
meanwhile being consoled by the knowledge that, 
as yet, there had come none other of sufficient at 
tractiveness to lure her away from her widowed 
mother and her home. 

The mother and daughter lived in an old 
fashioned, sprawling, white painted house, with 
picturesque Ionian pillars, that faced the* great 
park that bore their name. The park was 
bought with corn. The house, the stables, the 


A WAITING GAME, 


tbf 


carriages and horses, the big well kept lawn in 
front and to the sides — all were theirs because 
of corn. Had they wished for a crest to place 
on their carriage door, their stationery, their 
linen, it would have been an ear of corn. The 
father had been an early settler in the country, 
and, being shrewder than his neighbors, pros- 
pered to such an extent that he moved into 
the city. Here he dabbled in speculation, his 
blood ran wild with the fever, he dabbled deeper, 
plunged. For a time he was remarkably success- 
ful and his granaries groaned under the weight 
of the yellow cereal. He donated to the city a 
large tract of land; they called it Merne Park. 
But adversity sought and found him and he 
died just in time to leave to his family the old 
home and an income derived from a couple of 
large rich farms. A little mound and statue 
were erected in the park by the authorities to 
the honor of the dead man. And the widow 
and her daughter often visited the little token 
of remembrance and deeply loved the shade of 
the huge trees and the peaceful quiet of their 
depths. 

Joe Seawall, too, was an ardent lover of 
the park and had passed many a happy hour 
within it. But duty and the practical matter 
of making a living had called him away to 
another city, and at twenty-eight he was a 
traveling salesman for one of the largest whole- 
sale optical houses in Chicago, having half a 
dozen states to the west as his territory. He 
was a medium sized, well built man, with clean 
chiseled features and the brow of a thinker; a 
student of nature, of books, of men; jovial yet 
not boisterious; a real gentleman, who, in his 
travels, had enriched his character by good 


108 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

points unconsciously taken from others. And 
when he made his native city, which he con- 
trived to do quite frequently, his feet turned 
as certainly toward the home of the girl he 
loved as the compass needle finds the north, 
never forgetting to bring her a bunch of violets 
and a new stock of humourous adventures. 

At the time our story opens he was ap- 
proaching her home with soaring spirits for the 
last time he left her her voice had trembled in 
saying goodbye. Not that this was anything 
to feel jubilant over, but it was the first time 
she had ever displayed any emotion toward 
him. A great hope clutched at his heart when 
he strove to guess the source of that quaver. 
Could it be that it was the first flush of a 
fuller understanding, the rosy herald of the 
coming dawn? Had she unconsciously allowed 
him this peep into her inner thoughts? He 
would go mad with the joy of it, if it were 
true. So he strode along constructing aircastles. 
These structures took the form of a small 
cozy cottage, vineclad and inviting, and, beam- 
ing from the door or lingering on the gate was 
the precious being, his sweetheart. Sometimes 
his fancy was bold enough to picture her 
bending over something small in a cradle and 
he would rush in and kiss mother and child. 
Then, carried away with the stress of emotions 
he would vow that, God willing, he would win 
her and make her happy. To realize these 
dreams would be to make him the happiest 
mortal on earth. 

Also, as he went along, he dwelt on the 
good news he was bringing her. He had been 
admitted to the firm which meant an income 
of $5000 a year, anyway. Of course, he did 


A WAITING GAME. 


IO9 


not want to influence her by flaunting this in 
her face, but it made him feel more secure, 
more her social equal. Though she had never 
been spoiled by money yet she had always 
been used to luxury and the thought of his 
inability to place her in similar circumstances 
had ever acted as a drag on his love. But 
now the clouds had cleared away, the sky was 
a deep azure blue and his hopes soared high. 

The door was opened by Jessie herself who, 
011 seeing him, blushed deeply, then greeted him 
fervently with both hands. The blood rushed 
to his heart at this welcome, coming as it did 
as a climax to his optimistic musings. She led 
him into the coolness of one of the lofty 
rooms. 

“I was just thinking about you,” she said, 
smiling, then, as if that admission was too 
candid, she added, “for the first time in two 
weeks / 1 

“That makes twice a month, anyhow, ” he 
remarked, somewhat taken aback. “I have that 
much to be thankful for.” 

“Don’t get ironical, Joe,” she said. “You 
understand me. I say things to you that I 
wouldn’t to others for I know you know how 
to take them. And I’ve had so much on my 
mind lately that I couldn’t think of anyone 
you know.” 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” he said. “I 
can say, though, that I never saw you so 
charming. That dress becomes you so.” 

She passed this remark off with a wave of 
her hand. 

“Oh, Joe,” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean 
to say you haven’t heard the good news — the 
newest mews?” 


no 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


He admitted as much. 

“Why you remember that land of mine down 
in Texas?” she asked eagerty. “Well, they have 
struck oil right near it and my land is worth 
half a million dollars ! A cool half million ! 
Isn't that glorious, wonderful?” 

“A half million dollars!” He partly rose 
then sank back among the cushions, his heart 
like lead. She regarded him with sparkling eyes. 

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” she 
remarked airliy. “Come, congratulate me, Joe.” 

“I can’t very well,” he said sadly, “and do 
justice to myself. Of course that kills all my 
hopes.” 

“I guess it does, Joe, if you ever had any,” 
she replied. “But the rest of my friends seemed 
pleased.” 

“Then I’ll be different from the rest,” he 
blurted out. “And I had hopes of becoming 
closer than a friend. You can’t deny, Jessie, 
that I seemed more than a mere friend to you. 
Why, when I left last, was it because I was only 
a friend that you — you — ” 

He ceased for his feelings choked him. 

“That was just for the moment,” she ans- 
wered him. “I soon got over it.” 

“Jessie!” he exclaimed, his voice quivering 
with reproach. “Don’t say that gold has al- 
ready blinded you and corrupted your nature. 
Don’t tell me that you, with a woman’s instinct, 
didn’t know my feelings. Have you forgotten 
all the little trivialities that passed between us 
that seemed so slight yet meant so much — to 
me, at least? Yet I was only a friend, like the 
rest.” 

“I’m so sorry I said what I did, Joe,” she 
said, sitting down on a low stool at his side. 


A WA IT IN G GAME. 


Ill 


“You are a friend, but the best and dearest one 
I have. The vampire of wealth has not yet 
sucked away the blood of my old self, but there 
have been some changes, Joe, and one of them 
is our past relations. It has broadened my 
horizon and increased my sphere of usefulness. 
Where before I had but a view of our back 
garden, I now have a window on the sea. And 
you, who were a prominent feature of the back 
garden, are lost in the vast expanse of the sea.” 

“Then there were hopes for me, before this.” 
He hesitated. She nodded nonchalantly, “Ah, I 
won’t bother you with the pictures of the future 
I was painting, 0 he went on. “As I came up 
the winding path I felt that my new position 
with its $5000 a year was a seat among princes. 
The scene has indeed changed and in it I feel 
like one who has imperfectly learned his lines. 
I seem to be able to do nothing but devour 
the heroine with my eyes and mumble inco- 
herently ‘half a million, half a million.’ praying 
that it might all prove to be a dream. But 
Jessie, I would be mean and selfish if I went 
away without telling you that I am really 
pleased at your good fortune — for your sake.” 

She jumped up and taking his face between 
her hands looked deep into his eyes. 

“Joe, I could — ah — kiss you for that,” she 
exclaimed. 

“Don’t, please don’t,” he begged, gently 
pushing her away, “or you will leave me in a 
pitiable state.” 

“How sorry I feel for you — and myself,” 
she wanted to add. Then, as her real heart 
was going out to this man, her wealth came 
before her and blinded her. Her soul cried out 
at her unfairness to herself and to others. 


1 12 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Yet the past was dull compared to the future. 
She was but enduring those moments of all 
newly rich, the introspection, the giving up of 
the old and the taking on of the new, the push- 
ing aside of real happiness for that which they 
think they can buy but which is as far removed 
from that as the North Pole is from the Equa- 
tor. Unconsciously her thoughts wandered to 
New York, London, Paris; where, womanlike, 
she basked in the radiance of beautiful, wonder- 
ful gowns, worn by stately matrons with their 
frigid etiquette and by exquisite young women 
with their lap dogs and their idle chatter. In 
the midst of this she placed herself, the new 
luminary in the scoial sky; admired by states- 
men, millionaires, with a few dukes and counts 
thrown in; gaped at by the common people and 
envied by the women of all. classes. She felt how 
she would act : throwing a sweet smile to this 
or that devotee, proudly offering her hand to 
some land-poor prince to be kissed, or calmly 
and disdainfully ignoring the envying stares of 
her own sex. And after a while, when she had 
become satiated with homage, from all this 
brilliant assemblage she would choose one, 
possibly with no more interest than if she were 
ordering a new gown or buying a box of bon- 
bons. 

Of course there were certain requisites the 
man of her choice must have. He need not be 
handsome but his title must be long and illus- 
trious. He must be of a passive nature, allowing 
her to rule, and he must love her devotedly like 
— well, like her pet dog, Mercedes. Then she 
would begin a career, the magnificence of which 
would be remembered for years to come. Occa- 
sionally, she would run across to America, her 


A WAITING GAME. 


113 

sometime home, and visit her friends there, 
receiving the calls of her old lovers, of— 

She looked up to find the sad eyes of Joe 
Seawall scrutinizing her. She blushed deeply for 
it seemed he was reading her thoughts. 

“Jessie,” he said, slowly, “if you had seen 
the expression on your face just then it would 
have alarmed you. That is, the Jessie I once 
knew. Your thoughts were no doubt on the 
future, on the career you intend to lead. A 
golden sun has risen on your horizon which you 
have not yet learned to look at without blinking, 
but the reflection in your eyes, the eyes that are 
destined to play havoc with many a man’s 
heart, came from no other place than the throne 
of Mammon. But I am not one to criticize, 
who cannot say but I, too, would be changed 
by such good fortune. Nevertheless, Jessie, the 
wound is there in my heart and the fact that 
you have climbed to where I cannot follow but 
makes my love for you more acute.” 

“You promised me once, Joe,” she said 
slowly, “that you would not speak of love 
again until I allowed you to.” She rose from 
the low footstool. “And by so doing, now 4 ” 
she continued, “you endanger my happiness.” 

He was on his feet in an instant. “Yes,” 
he exclaimed, “I did promise, but neither you 
nor I ever anticipated this— this happening. I 
have good cause to break my word. And when 
I see you slipping away from these arms that 
you admit you might have entertained, the 
knowledge makes me forget, yes, forget every- 
thing, Jessie, but that I love you. Do you 
remember the many times, years ago, when we 
two watched the rising sun touch the dark 
cliffs across the river and pass slowly down the 


1 14 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

sides till it rested on the stream beneath and 
turned it into glistening silver? You remember? 
And sometimes a cloud obscured the sun which, 
though hidden, burned just as fiercely as ever. 
And the river and valley missed its warmth. 
Ah, those were happy days and I drained the 
cup to the dregs. But now, Jessie, a cloud in 
the shape of a fortune has come between you 
and me, but the love I bear you will burn on 
forever. I cannot say, however, that you will 
ever miss it.” 

He paused for the girl had hidden her face 
in her hands and was softly sobbing. Joe laid 
a gentle hand on her shoulder* 

“Dear girl, forgive me,” he murmured. “It 
is very selfish of me to speak the way I have 
when I should be silent. Nature with her 
stupendous wealth is against me. I am sup- 
posed to have played my part and should 
step out of the scene. But I was ever a poor 
actor and so linger. That fellow was right 
who told us of the sadness of the 1 might have 
been.’ ” 

She dropped her hands from her eyes which 
twinkled through the mist. Perhaps a little 
devil was lurking in their depths. “You always 
were such a good friend, ” she said, with emphasis 
on the friend. “I always act so foolishly when 
you speak that way. Pm like the doll that cries 
‘Mama’ when squeezed. Do I love you, Joe? 
Yes, about — let me see — so much.” She indi- 
cated the amount on her little finger; then 
laughed at his crestfallen face. She was an 
adept at teasing. 

Joe turned away, angry at heart, aggrieved 
that she should humiliate him so. She laid a 
detaining hand on his arm. “Joe” she said; and 


A WAITING GAME. II5 

when he turned and looked into her face he was 
forced to smile. The threatening clouds had 
vanished and he was now ready to discuss her 
affairs with no more outbreaks of emotion. 

They went out on the romantic porch that 
faced the park. The sun was resting for a 
moment on the top of the cliffs across the river 
which, shaded and noiseless, was like a gray 
ribbon in the distance. The billowly clouds that 
hung silently in the sky were masses of crimson 
fire. The horizontal shafts of light splintered 
against the foremost trees, the fragments scat- 
tering far and wide in the depths of the woods. 
Birds flew by, bright flashes of color, and 
squirrels scampered through the grass and up 
the tree trunks in joyous mood. No breeze 
blew; the quiet was disturbed only by the hum 
of the city. Presently, as they sat in silence, the 
sun was gone and the pink twilight deepened 
into a purple, this being followed by the first 
darkness. Away through the trees glittered like 
large fireflies the lights in the pavillion from 
which there came to their ears a concord of 
sweet sounds. People were there enjoying them- 
selves, young and old, the staid and the undig- 
nified, the lover and his sweetheart. And as the 
thought came to Joe Seawall of the many 
times he had been one of that happy throng, 
with a certain girl beside him, he stirred in his 
seat in agony of spirit. 

Fate to him was a very incomprehensible 
thing. It had given him a favorable position 
in commerce, had tickled his vanity with suc- 
cess, and then had shriven with one blow all 
his plans in another direction. Gladly would he 
have given up the first for the last, if he could. 
The future stretched before him, black, unin- 


Il6 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

viting as the unlighted portions of the forest 
out there. But the woods would laugh and 
sparkle in the morning sun; there was no sun 
for him, now. Time was supposed to be a great 
physician, skilled in applying balm to the strick- 
en mind and soul — would it heal the wound in 
his heart? Would he ever get so he could love 
another woman as he loved Jessie Merne? Would 
the world ever again take on a festive mood for 
him and please and amuse him with its frolics? 
Never. Like those sturdy cottonwoods, once but 
puny seedlings received and nurtured by a quick- 
ening soil, so the love germ within him, implant- 
ed there by a glance from a pair of brown eyes, 
had grown in the passing of time beyond his 
control, into a monarch of its kind and upon 
which time could make no effect other than to 
strengthen and enlarge. And like them he would 
be silent. The lesson had been given and he had 
learned it. 

Jessie sat near him and said not a word. 
These long spaces of uninterrupted thought were 
frequent between them, and she had come to like 
them. She never felt uneasy, never felt as if 
something must be said or done to break the 
charm, she was willing to continue it. She liked 
him for these breathing spells, for these intellec- 
tual pauses, and knew full well that it was not 
because he had nothing to say — he was a charm 
ing entertainer, learned and witty — but knew it 
to be his unconscious habit and that when he 
again opened his lips it would be to dwell on 
something else than the idle chatter the majoriy 
of her suitors bored her with. So she refrained 
from speech on this particular occasion, appre- 
ciating his feelings somewhat. Yet, as the time 
passed, she began to grow restless. Finally he 


A WAITING GAME. 117 

sighed and turned to her. 

“Tell me your plans,” he said. 

“They are crude yet,” she answered. “But 
we — mother and I — are ready to leave in a few 
days for New York. From there we go to Paris 
and then to Italy where we will spend the winter. 
In a year or so we will return for a visit. The 
ready money, man of business, was obtained by 
selling a slice of the oil lands. In my absence 
my lawyer will attend to all affairs. Then, after 
a rest here we will be off again to fresh fields.” 

“And your native city will know you no 
more,” commented Joe. 

“Oh, yes, it will,” she said lightly. This will 
be our headquarters from which to plan the 
conquest of the world.” 

“This coming and going — how long do you 
intend to keep it up?” asked the man. 

“Until — well, until I get married,” she laugh- 
ingly replied. “Sometime I’ll bring home a young 
duke in my travelling case, and, after displaying 
him, go away forever to live in a magnificent 
castle in a romantic land.” 

“Poor girl” was all her lover could say. 
Later, he added “America is a land of romance.” 

“Yes,” she said, “but it is inhabited by 
a practical, money getting people. There is a 
newness about it that is hard to get accustomed 
to, like a pair of new shoes. One cannot get 
here the exquisite languor of dear, musty Italy 
and the stolid indifference to practical matters; 
the fiery pleasures of the French; the solid en- 
joyment of rural England. I was always a lover 
of ancient history, and I would dearly love to 
abide where the scenes of many of its pages were 
laid. Across there they care more for pleasure 
than for money.” 


Il8 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

u Possibly,” he said dryly. “ Food always 
tastes better away from home. But keep your 
pocketbook full of loose change — they have a 
failing for tips in dear, musty, old Europe. But 
Jessie, you are a native American and American 
you will be forever. You can no more escape 
this clinging of home ties than you can ever 
hope to be satisfied in an out-of-date, dirty, 
gloomy old pile' of stones commonly called 
castles. Allow me to state, that you’ll come 
back head over heels in love with your despised, 
newly manufactured, get-rich-quick country. Did 
you ever hear tell of the cat that came back?” 

“ Blind patriot!” she exclaimed, forced to 
laugh. “So you think I’ll be unsatisfied?” 

“Indeed I do” was his reply. “The little 
city of New York holds more life and enjoy- 
ment than any place I know of. Try the 
Rockies, the Adirondacks, the Catskills, for an 
anditote for the Swiss hills. Take a stroll 
through rural America but don’t marvel too 
much at its immensity, at its granduer. Visit 
the historical spots of our country but don’t 
let the spirit they will arouse in you dampen 
your ardour for old world sites. But last of 
all — go where you will, do what you will — but 
for heaven’s sake don’t marry a sapless figure- 
head of nobility. You have America, God’s 
country, to choose from.” 

She had no answer for this but with a 
woman’s wit she struck home where it hurt 
most. “Then why not you?” she asked. 

“Because — because I refuse,” he stammered, 
almost staggered at the question. Then he 
arose suddenly and placed his hand on her 
golden head. “May the goddess of fortune 
guard you,” he said, “and give you a husband 


who will be worthy of you.” 

“Amen to that, Joe,” she said. Was she 
laughing at him? She was standing beside him 
now. 

“May the god of commerce prosper you, 
Joe,” she said, “and give you a wife who will 
love you as much as — you deserve to be loved.” 

An irregular moon peeped over the treetops 
and sprinkled silvery flakes over them and their 
surroundings. He looked down into her face so 
close to his and the desire of possession seized 
him with a rash. She seemed a very venus, a 
creature not of earth. But he closed his jaws 
with a snap and said huskily : 

“And now goodbye — forever.” 

“Farewell, rather,” she corrected, putting 
forth her small hand; “for I intend that you 
shall call on me when I return, Joe.” 

Joe vowed that he would never brave an- 
other parting but his heart failed him to so state 
it and he said : 

“It may be so, Jessie. We will see.” 

He strode away, but as he turned the last 
corner he looked back and saw her leaning 
against one of the great white pillars, her head 
inclined forward limply. And the irregular moon 
shone full in his face and mocked him with its 
silvery splendor, and an owl hooted from the 
darkness of Merne Park. 


CHAPTER II. 


A year passed; a year of commercial pros- 
perity for Joe Seawall, yet one of misery. In 
looking back he could honestly say that he 
never endured a more lonesome, disagreeable 
twelve-months. At first he had tried to forget 
her by turning his thoughts to his business, by 
working hard at it. For a time this method 
succeeded for there were manifold duties connect- 
ed with his new position and they required his 
whole time and thoughts. But as he got the 
hang of the thing, when breathing spells were 
frequent, he invariably caught himself thinking 
of the girl he had lost. Then he plunged into 
the thick of social life but instead of forgetful- 
ness found agony. Did he meet a beautiful wo- 
man it was to compare her with one he deemed 
more beautiful; to keep telling himself that 
Jessie Merne would not say that or would say 
this; that she would be divine in this dress; or 
that she had a way, amounting almost to genius 
of putting up her hair. No woman pleased him 
— he was seeking an ideal in a world of the real. 
And the chances were that the cause of this 
mental disquietude and unrest had long since 
omitted him from her thoughts in her career 
abroad. 

Seldom did he ever hear of her— never direct. 


A WAITING GAME. 


121 


He understood she [was living very quietly, 
directly the reverse of her own prediction to 
him. She seemed to find more pleasure in out- 
of-the-way places than in the large cities with 
their artificial magnificence; the peasantry ap- 
pealed more to her than the aristocratic class 
— they were more sincere in their lives. There 
was no denying the fact, however, that she 
could have become popular in high society, for 
her beautiful face and her apparent wealth had 
caused several nobles to ask to meet her. But 
these could never pass her deadline of reserve 
and came to dread her cutting, incomprehensible 
humor. All this Joe Seawall knew and it cheered 
him. And once a mutual friend who had seen 
her in Rome, carried back news that gratified 
her friends at home mightily, and verified former 
reports. It seems that there was nothing glar- 
ingly attractive about her to dissinguish her 
from other wealthy and beautiful American 
women in Europe. She had no hobby, she didn’t 
gamble at Monte Carlo, she was not to be found 
in the company of blase princelings and sapless 
nobles of questionable character. If she chose 
to not go out horseback riding, she was gener- 
ally to be noticed with her mother. 

There were two men, however, who penetrated 
her guard and engaged her attentions, and 
toward them she finally showed a regard dan- 
gerously near affection. The Hon. Julius Het- 
combe, ex-congressman from Texas, and Mr. 
Davie McGilton, a Scotch satirist and noted 
writer, both wealthy and both fervently sincere 
in their love for this girl of beauty, were gentle- 
men of determination, accustomed to having 
their own way. The Scotchman could trace his 
descent from one of the kings of his country and 


122 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


when at home lived on his immense estate in the 
Highlands, which had been in his family for ages. 
He had a title but dropped it on becoming head 
of the house, considering the honor an empty 
one and the title a useless appendage. 

“ As a matter of fact, Miss Merne,” he would 
say, “I have no more right to it than you 
have, I never earned it or acquired it in any 
manner whatever. Heredity, you say?. A foolish 
custom, originated among the barbarians in the 
Stone Age, I presume. I like your American 
ways of election where the able get the honors 
and the titles.” 

“You don’t understand our politics” said 
Jessie, laughingly, “or you wouldn’t say the 
best men fill the offices. It’s a matter of honor 
goes where shrewdness leads it. As a rule, good 
men are like hen’s teeth— -conspicuous by their 
absence. But when one does show up, he gets 
the best we have.” 

“And the women — they worship them?” 

“No — they respect and honor them. Some 
are like you — they disregard them altogether.” 

“Me— that is a mistake,” exclaimed Mr. Me 
Gilton. “I simply have not yet met the— the 
right one. When I do I will fall on my knees 
and ask — ” 

“Be careful, Sir David,” she advised, you 
will only bag your trousers instead of larger 
game.” 

Thus she kept him on the ragged edge of 
uncertainty — he didn’t know to which side he 
would finally fall. But with the Hon. Julius 
Hetcombe, ex-congressman from Texas, she met 
a man, a country-man, who understood her to 
a great extent and who was a most impulsive 
suitor. It didn’t take him long to get on ap- 


A W AITI NG GAME. 


123 


parently intimate terms with her, despite the 
barriers she hid behind and the weapons she 
used, usually dangerous to others. 

“Lord, little girl, this is a lazy country, ” 
he would say. He towered above her about a 
foot and a half. “Cigarettes, cigarettes, ciga- 
rettes. rd make the beggars work instead of 
filling every doorway and begging from every 
respectable man that passes. They’d get the 
calaboose in a hurry in America, wouldn’t they 
Jessie?” He called her Jessie like an old friend. 

At another time he said, “Do you know, 
little girl, I am duced fond of you.” 

“I just heard you say so,” she said, uncon- 
cernedly. “The phrase is not unknown to me.” 

“Indeed,” said he. “Well, I have a few 
notches on my gun, too. So maybe we’re even. 
You’re lonesome. It’s a shame to let you run 
around without a protector, so I’ll appoint my- 
self a guardian, with the approval of the court, 
to see that no harm comes to you during the 
balance of your life. How about it?” 

“Let me see” she mused. “You’re out of 
office now. No, couldn’t do it, old chap. Get 
rid of that ‘ex’ before your title and I might 
consider the proposal, if that is what you call 
it.” 

“Hang it, girl, I’ll do it, if you’ll wait.” 

“Oh, I’m in no hurry to get married. Take 
your time.” 

That was why the tvo men were constantly 
near her — they had hopes. And when Joe Sea 
wall was told of these suitors he clenched his 
hands and stared before him helplessly. 

Yet there was one thing that set his pulse 
to beating again. With the mutual friend she 
sent an oral message: “Remember me to all 


124 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

my friends and tell J oe Seawall America is a very 
pretty country.” So she was beginning — just a 
little maybe — to get homesick, to appreciate the 
absent. Hopeless though his own suit was, this 
news bouyed him up considerably. When a man 
loses in the game of love, he cannot help hop- 
ing, useless though it may be, when the object 
of his choice continues in an unmarried state. 
And her admission from across the seas of the 
beauty of her native land was to him a hint of 
her homecoming. So he got in the habit of 
glancing over the list of arrivals at New York, 
each time cursing himself for a fool. 

Then came the day, when, in the performance 
of this unconscious act, he chanced on her name. 
He read it again and again. There it stood. 
Mrs. John Merne, Miss Jessie Merne, on the Kaiser 
Wilhelm. Would she come straight through or 
linger in the east? He angrily threw the paper 
down. What did he care, why did he bother 
about it? Then, being a sensible man, he ad- 
mitted he did care. He knew where he stood; 
there was no use in trying to deceive himself. 
And so, with a sense of depression and exalta- 
tion combined, he went about his work. 

One day, perhaps a week later, while writing 
at a desk in his hotel, two men sat down near 
him and commenced to talk in low tones. At 
first he paid no attention, but now and then he 
caught words — “ Texas” — “ oil lands ” — “ Merne” 
— “ Europe.” He continued to scribble aimlessly, 
while the men gradually raised their voices. 
When they arose to go he arose also with a set 
face. 

The next day he was speeding south with a 
ticket in his pocket reading “to Texas and re- 
turn.” A week or so later he was on his way 


A WAITING GAME. 


125 


back but when nearing Chicago the train stop- 
ped at a small village. There had been a serious 
washout and the conductor informed him the 
train would lay over till next day. Inwardly 
anathematizing the delay he made his way on 
foot to the village hotel, the most conspicuous 
building in sight. A depot omnibus rolled past 
him through the miry streets and he caught a 
glimpse of a face at a window, causing him to 
draw in his breath quickly. But pshaw, what 
would she be doing in this out-of-the-way place? 

He stepped into the hotel and — came face to 
face with Jessie Merne who, though browner, was 
withal just the same as he last saw her. Mutely 
they gazed at each other. 

“ Welcome back to civilization,” fhe finally 
said, reaching out a hand. “Of all persons 
you’re the one I most wanted to see and least 
expected to — here.” 

“Thanks,” she replied, her eyes glistening 
with pleasure. “Still the same sincere, never-say- 
die Joe. My presence here — washout.” 

“Mine, too. Just back from Texas.” 

“ Business?” 

“Yes — yours.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I mean, my fair globetrotter, that you are 
in danger of been buncoed out of your oil 
lands — or were. Your lawyer is in collusion 
with a number of men to buy your property.” 

“Yes,” she said, “and I’m going to sell. 
He has been advising me for some time that the 
oil is dying out and that the land is depreciat- 
ing in value very rapidly. He counselled me to 
sell before it dropped below half what I told 
you a year ago.” 

“Just as I thought,” mused Joe. “Well, it’s 


126 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


a lie — a gigantic swindle. The property down 
there is booming, they are boring wells every- 
where, people are flocking there by the hundreds, 
and your land is far more valuable than it was 
a year ago. I know,” he concluded. “I was 
down there to investigate.” 

“Then I came near selling for twenty per 
cent, of its present value?” 

“That’s how I figure it.” 

“I would never have known but for you,” 
she said, oblivious of everything but the man 
into whose face she was gazing. “I trusted him 
so implicity — took his decisions as final — would 
have sold everything without suspicion. He even 
advised me to keep away from there as the 
neighborhood was swarming with rough men and 
with polished men full of oily schemes, forgetting 
to add that he was one of the latter. I see it 
all now. I believed him. Was on my way home 
to close the deal when fortune or fate stopped 
me here. A great business head I have.” 

“Don’t censure yourself,” said Joe. “Many 
a shrewd merchant has been duped and ruined 
by too profound a faith in others. I don’t 
blame some women for protesting that all men 
are liars.” 

“I could never think so, knowing certain 
men,” she remarked candidly. 

Later in the evening, as they were rising from 
the table in the small dining room, she turned 
to him suddenly, 

“Why did you do this for me — all this trouble 
and expense?” she asked. He looked through 
the door at a farm wagon lab ring in the mud. 
The past year, the loneliness of it, surged through 
his brain and concentrated itself at this moment. 
Yet he was not without a certain pride, an in- 


A WAITING GAME. 


127 


ward sensitiveness, that prevented him from 
again overstepping definite bounds, be}"ond which 
their last parting had placed him. Wo Id she 
care if he did tell her the real reason? He was 
mad to think so. 

“ Because,’ ’ he replied slowly, “ because I was 
a friend. I would do the same for an}^one in a 
like position.” 

This was not an answer she liked — or ex- 
pected. She wanted to know whether this man 
was still in the meshes, whether he had drifted 
away from her influence during her absence. 
However, she would adopt his methods — a cool 
indifference. 

“Then I intend to make it worth your 
while,” she said. “I will send you a check to 
cover your expenses and what extra I think the 
services were worth.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind. I am not 
that mercenary.” She pretended to miss this. 

“Let me see,” she murmured, apparently 
figuring mentally. “Yes, that will make it — ” 

“Stop, please!” he interrupted. “I beg to 
remind you, Miss Merne, that you are not deal- 
ing with a servant — or with anyone in your 
debt. What I did I did voluntarily; and by 
insisting on reimbursing me you not only insult 
me but you shatter all my ideals of you as you 
once were. You have been rubbing elbows with 
avaricious Europeans too long— you have for- 
gotten how to respect a friend’s feelings.” 

“The gentleman will pardon me,” she said, 
aghast at this unexpected outburst. “I implore 
you to forget. I am a determined body, how- 
ever, and have peculiar views; so someday I 
hope and predict that I will reward you.” 

Further conversation was cut short by the 


128 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


arrival of a conductor from one of the stalled 
trains, who loudly proclaimed to all within hear- 
ing that a train was leaving in a few moments 
bound for Chicago in a roundabout way. Joe 
heard this news with mingled regret and relief. 

“That means me,” he said, with a faint 
attempt at a smile. “I presume you will wait 
over, Miss Merne?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “It is perhaps best.” 

While Joe was gloomingly peering through 
the car windows into the darkness without, be- 
wailing his lot, the woman he had left behind, 
went upstairs to her simply furnished room and 
threw herself on the bed. And the sobs that 
shook her body were evidence that she had 
something on her mind, that she was unhappy. 


CHAPTER III. 

The firm of which Joe Seawall was a member 
was approaching a crisis, though they knew it 
not. The country was lying under the gloom 
of one of those periodic financial depressions 
commonly called “hard times,” in which seeming- 
ly stable fortunes go a-glimmering, and great 
commercial institutions of apparent strength 
are undermined, then crumble and vanish from 
the sight of men like sand houses built in the 
wash of the incoming sea. Banks of approved 
firmness suspend — even National Banks with 
their supposedly rock foundations and their 
corps of efficient workers. Little banks look to 
these larger affairs with wonder and respect for 
strength like a small boy looks to his father on 
whom he depends for support qmd protection. 
And when one of these monarchs succumbs to 
influences mightier than itself, it c uries with 
it in the downfall numbers of smaller institu- 
tions, all ending in one common deplorable ruin. 
Then the air takes up the vibrations of the 
wreck and conveys them to the remotest cor- 
ners. And because men cannot read the future 
and guard against this mighty engine of de- 
struction that rides roughly over great and 
small; because of this the successful firm of this 
week is a bankrupt and failure the next. 


130 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


Joe's firm had completed a very successful 
year despite the lean and double-knotted pocket- 
books of all peoples. Of course there was a 
reason for this. The purchase of the unnecessary 
was thrown far into the future. This was the 
time of threatening want, of the sinking of 
values to bedrock, of foreclosures of mortgages; 
and such things as jewelry, melodians, richer 
apparel, finer food, were not to be thought of. 
A man must read, however — so must his wife; 
so down went glasses on the list of necessaries. 
This made the retailers busy and their activity 
was transmitted to the large wholesalers. So the 
firm prospered and profits were good. Yet the 
boil of bankruptcy was forming under their very 
noses and they were ignorant of it. Accordingly, 
at last when the head burst they were dumb- 
founded with the suddenness of it and cast in- 
to the deepest despair. 

The doors of the Toric National Bank re- 
mained closed one morning and in half an hour 
the whole city knew that something unusual had 
taken place. This belief was verified when the 
president, humiliated beyond relief, blew his 
brains out. Later in the day could be heard 
the crash of the smaller dependent banks as 
they sank under the blow. Stocks, already 
below normal, trembled, broke and fell still 
farther. Then, many business houses, stunned 
by the catastrophe, went to the wall. Conster- 
nation ran riot in the city and tragedies followed 
fast and hard on the initial great one. Joe's 
firm, with its deposit of $25,000, the total avail- 
able cash, was one of the few that was hanging 
on, yet with tooth and nail. 

A hurried meeting of the members brought 
out the fact that, unless an equal amount was 


A WAITING GAME. I3I 

forthcoming in two weeks to meet the large 
expenses and the outstanding bills, they would 
have to declare themselves bankrupt. There 
were but five men directly concerned, and as 
each one had put his all into the business and 
had no reserve the prospects were dark indeed. 
Alternatives there were none. Let them save 
what they could and later start all over again. 
The medicine was bitter but it had to be taken. 

The news overtook Joe Seawall at a little 
station near his home where he was going on 
business. He held the yellow paper in his hand 
and gazed at it dumbly. It was like a bolt 
from a clear sky. It was a blow from behind, 
falling on him with all the force of the unexpected. 
The earth opened and yawned before him, a 
bottomless pit; and a dank blackness enveloped 
him and obscured his vision. He was again flat 
on his back, down among the struggling masses, 
among those who could lose nothing because 
they had nothing. But he was not one to be 
crushed by the vagaries of fortune, sweeping 
though the defeat may be. There was no use 
ci^dng over spilt milk. He would do his duty 
where he was going, then return and put his 
shoulder to the wheel. Health and youth were 
still his — there was no occasion for despair. 
Perhaps it was not so bad after all; first reports 
were usually exaggerated. So on with the dance, 
fiddler, the night is still young. 

f! Joe descended from the sleeper in the early 
morning, freshened and cheered by the night’s 
rest. No one was astir save the night workers 
around the depot who were putting things 
in order for the day shift. Switch engines puffed 
past on their way to fresh duties. Trainmen 


132 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

went by, dirty and tired, bound for home and 
rest. Hammers rose and fell on car wheels as 
men hurried along the train looking for hot 
boxes and other troubles. The air was cool and 
bracing and the crimson glow in the east was 
already shaming the electric lights into extinc- 
tion. From afar came an ever increasing hum 
as the sleeping city was awaking to another 
season of toil. 

Joe had a light breakfast and, leaving his 
grips at the depot, strode away. He was a great 
walker, deeming this mode of locomotion specially 
conducive to deep thinking, the solving of com- 
plex questions, the easing of a troubled mind. 
So, on this morning, with a problem of xmusual 
moment to dwell upon, he went along, uncon- 
scious of his surroundings. And the sun rose 
higher and higher striking him full in the back. 
The muscles act involuntarily when the mind 
is distant, and this might account for his sud- 
denly realized presence at one of the entrances 
to Merne Park. For a moment he hesitated; 
then, as the cool shadows seemed to invite him 
and to promise solitude, he entered. 

There is an indefinable something in the early 
morning air, an intangible tonic, concentrated 
rejuvinating, that lends to us an independence of 
thought and a calm dispassionate view of our 
troubles and sorrows. Perhaps, in this approach 
to natui'e in her supremest mood, we are but 
harking back to the primordial man who was 
as much a part of the forest as the wildest animal 
in it. The subtle aroma fills our nostrils, tingles 
through the blood, mounts to the brain and 
causes us to throw back our shoulders and 
gulp down the clear life-producing ozone in 
extraordinary quantities. Away with the vexa- 


A WAITING GAME. 


*33 


tions of life, we are once more children of the 
wild! Be that as it may, Joe Seawall wandered 
aimlessly along, squirrels scampering before him, 
and birds, redheaded woodpeckers, robins, com- 
mon sparrows, eying him complacently as he 
passed; and as he walked his worries dropped 
from his shoulders like a mantle and he was 
once more a happy carefree boy. 

Suddenly there was a stir, a rustle among 
the bushes to his left, and a figure in white 
stepped into view. Recognition was instant 
on both sides. But the memory of their last 
meeting rankled in his soul. 

“Pardon me,” said Joe, “for intruding on 
your privacy.” 

“The park is public,” she said, “and I am 
lost, bewildered.” 

“So am I,” he retorted. “Pve been trying 
to find my way out for over a year — ten years, 
it seems.” 

“You need a guide,” she said. 

“It does seem so,” he admitted. “But you 
— how long since you’ve been lost?” he added, 
parting the bushes that she might pass through. 
She made no answer. 

He picked up a dead twig and started ^to 
whittle it. The white chips fell in a shower and 
presently he reached for another. 

“Would you mind telling me his name?” he 
asked slowly. 

“I knew I was wandering long ago,” said 
Jessie, as if speaking to herself, “but 'my helpless 
condition was only realized ”She didn’t finish. 

“Which one of the two foreign chaps?” per- 
sisted Joe. “I can keep a secret.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to keep it.” 

“Then it is already public. I didn’t know. 


134 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


I hadn't heard." 

He pictured the lucky one awaiting her 
somewhere in the far east. He had anticipated 
this moment of knowledge for many months; 
and when it came he was surprised at his own 
coolness. 

"When does it happen?" he asked, pulling a 
leaf from a weeping willow. 

"When he comes out of his trance; when 
someone knocks him over with a club.” 

He gazed at her in amazement. Was she los- 
ing her mind? Or was she only playing tag with 
his feelings? 

Jessie laughed and motioned towards her 
foot. "Will the gentleman kindly tie my shoe?" 
she said. 

They came to a little gully where a clear 
stream ran and over which was constructed a 
small rustic log bridge. He advised the bridge, 
but she demurred. 

"Let us jump it," she exclaimed. "I enjoy 
the hazardous. I like to gamble on uncertainties." 

She was over before he knew it and stood 
laughing at him on the other side. He" followed 
leisurely and she gave him her hand to assist 
her up the steep side. Then, for some time they 
went along in silence. A low-crotched tree ob- 
structed their path and she climbed into the 
seat gaily. 

"Let us rest," she said, blithely, "for I am 
aweary and need it badly. And I have such a 
terrible pain in my heart. I suffer awfully at 
times." 

Joe jabbed the tree viciously with the point 
of his knife. And with each thrust he felt meaner. 

"I suppose I must again congratulate you" 
he said. 


A WAITING GAME. 


135 


“I believe that would be the proper proceed- 
ing, Sir Joseph the Melancholy, ” she answered, 
her eyes twinkling. “You shouldn’t be so stren- 
uous with that weapon — you display your emo- 
tions too plainly.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Jessie,” 
exclaimed her old lover, partly turning away. 
“You would be positively cruel if I cared, like I 
once did. But time has done the work — I have 
gotten over my folly.” 

“I don’t believe a word of it, Joe,” she re- 
plied. “You were ever a poor dissembler and I 
can tell where you are standing, stoic.” 

“Jessie,” he burst out, “it seems that the 
more fortune favors you, the deeper I sink. Yes- 
terday I, myself, was prosperous; to-day I am 
touching bottom, and ruin is staring me in the 
face.” 

“How is that?” 

Then he told her of the impending insolvency 
of his firm and of his own personal loss. During 
his recital she was very quiet. 

“Joe,” she cried, when he finished, “you don’t 
know how I regret to hear it. Would that I 
could help you.” 

“That is impossible,” he said, decidedly. 
“The suddenness of it has uumanned me, but I 
will soon get over it. At any rate I can earn a 
sufficiency to keep me all my life.” 

Jessie sat in the improvised seat in the tree, 
her eyes fixed on the ground. A perfume-laden 
breeze fanned her cheek and passed on, leaving 
a memory of similar breezes in the dim past 
when they two were together in the park as now. 
In those days she had felt free to unburden her- 
self of her petty troubles, always sure of a 
sympathizing listener. He was so sincere in 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN, 


136 

everything, in liis work, in his love for her. 
Then had come the golden wedge that sepa- 
rated them, he to go one way, she another. The 
sojourn in the old world passed by and she was 
on the ship coming back to the States, because 
she was homesick and hungry for everything dear 
to her youth. Then came the meeting in the 
little village and the knowledge of his sacrifice 
for her — and their quarrel. Now, on top of all 
this was the news of his loss. A wave of emo- 
tion swept over her and left her trembling. 
Something apparently snapped in her brain and 
she was once more the innocent, confiding 
Jessie Merne who used to live in the big house 
near the park. 

“ Joe,” she ejaculated, “ever since that day 
when my fortune descended on me like a cloud 
from heaven I have been unhappy. No, don’t 
interrupt me. Everywhere I went I met poverty, 
pitiful pleading poverty, and I grew ashamed 
that so much wealth should be entrusted to an 
irresponsible weakling like me. I feel mean at 
myself. I want to cry for myself but I choke.” 

“I thought you were happy abroad,” he ven- 
tured. 

“No,” she confessed. “At first everything 
was new and wonderful and I was interested 
and considered myself happy. But I grew sati- 
ated with the strange and beautiful in time. It 
was as if I had been travelling for years, as if I 
had gone through this many times in past ages. 
I soon tired of the blase men, of their petty 
affairs, of their avaricious faces. So mother and 
I sought the beautiful spots of the old world and 
living by ourselves, really enjoyed it. But your 
remarks about the folly of going abroad for 
places of interest ever rang in my ears. I felt 


A WAITING GAME. 


137 


like a traitor to my country. And then I got 
homesick, Joe, homesick for dear America, and 
we came back.” 

“And the man in the case?” queried Joe, 
industriously carving something in the tree. 

“There was no man,” she answered, then 
blushed. 

“Do you mean that ” 

“I am just the same as when I left — only 
wiser. I feel ten years older and I have, oh, 
you don’t know how much more sense.” 

“I always admired you for that quality — even 
then,” he said. 

She jumped down and read what he was 
cutting. It was her own name, “Jessie,” carved 
in irregular yet readable letters. She took the 
knife from him, and, flushing to the roots of 
her hair, added a capital S after her name. 

“Jessie, girl, can it be?” he gasped, and she 
nodded. And ever after she chided him on the 
fact that she did the proposing. 

They wandered hand-in-hand to the big bridge 
that spanned the small lake into which the 
streamlet emptied. The water was smooth as 
glass save for the ripples left by a few majestic 
geese as they glided through the water. A gold- 
en-streaked butterfly rested on the rail beside 
them. Joe was the first to speak. 

“I know the way now — and you, too,” he 
said. “I thought I was lost for life.” 

“Ah, Joe,” said his promised wife, “it was a 
hard struggle with me. I had dreams, but, 
thank God, they never materialized. Yet I fought 
desperately against what I now see was the 
hand of fate.” 

His arm stole caressingly about her and he 


133 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


murmured, “You don't know, Jessie, how happy 
you've made me." 

“Can I help you now — in your business?" 

“Anything your heart desires." 

“Then my prediction has come true, I reward 
you. For Joe, I love you, love you, love you." 

And the golden- streaked butterfly wafted on 
before them; on to the old-fashioned, sprawling, 
white-painted house that faced the park. 


A Case of Circumstantial 
Evidence. 


Sometimes, when business drags, I go out on 
a little trip to see if I can’t stimulate the flag- 
ging interest. Heroic measures are required 
often, but I usually succeed in arousing my 
customers from their stupor. Messer can tell 
you that my establishment is running full blast 
when the head of the firm — in plain terms the 
“old man” — is on the road. So, on the partic- 
ular occasion I have in mind, when the regular 
fall increase did not occur, I finally found my- 
self seated in an outgoing train. And, becoming 
interested in some personal papers, I was obli- 
vious of my surroundings. Accordingly it was 
as from a distance that a voice disturbed my 
thoughts. 

“Confound their impatience ! If I were in 
authority, some one would suffer!” 

I looked up in surprise at my companion on 
the opposite seat. He was a man of about 
middle age, stoclcily built, well dressed, and with 
a calm, intellectual face. At first glance, being 
rather proud of my ability to guess accurately 
the professions of the people I meet, I concluded 
he was a traveling representative of some large 
commercial house. He had an air of authority, 
of independence, a note of decision in his deep, 


140 


tales of an optician. 


full-lunged voice, that carried conviction with it. 
Pre-eminently, outwardly, physically, he was a 
successful man. Later, when better acquainted. 
I acknowledged my mistake and gave him full 
credit : he was the head of the house. 

On entering the car I had selected this par- 
ticular section, as the appearance of the only 
occupant tended to quiet my fears of having a 
talkative fellow passenger. I like peace when 
traveling and this outburst of his jarred on me 
yet created a curiosity as to the cause of it. He 
lowered the paper he was reading and regarded 
me in some confusion. 

“ You’ll have to pardon me, sir,” he said. 
“I have a bad habit of speaking my thoughts 
aloud. But this paper, here,” tapping it with 
his hand, “tells of a man being hung on circum- 
stantial evidence; then, after his body was cold 
—but I am annoying you, perhaps.” 

“No, no, not at all,” I hastened to say, wish- 
ing to learn the facts. 

“Cases like this,” he continued, reassured, 
“always anger me extremely, for I was once con- 
nected with one very closely. That was long ago 
— but do you smoke?” 

I admitted that I was a slave to the habit. 

“Then we’ll go to the smoker, if you choose.” 

Comfortably seated and smoking one of his 
fine cigars, I listened to a story that interested 
me so much that I set it down here. 

“When I was a boy,” he began, “which was 
many years ago, as you can clearly perceive, I 
lived on a farm with my parents. My father 
was quite successful and in the operation of his 
large farm employed two or three men the year 
around. These were the stationaries, the per- 
manent help. Most of the men were of the shifty, 


A CASE OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. I4I 

wandering type, except one man who had come 
to ns years before under peculiar circumstances. 
When driving from town, one evening, father had 
picked him from the snow by the roadside. A 
rapid journey home and he was under the tender 
care of my mother. 

“Some days passed before he was able to be 
around, when he elected to stay with us. A 
silenter man I’ve never met; and, though deeply 
grateful to the old folks for their kindness, they 
could't draw a word from him about his past. 
His stay lasted from month to month and final- 
ly drifted into years. And I, being an only child, 
came to love him like a brother. 

“His was a nature with which it is a pleasure 
to come into contact. A tremendous worker, 
invariably kind, a lover of justice, unaffectedly 
honest and an exponent of the ‘good will to 
men’ rule, he was liked by all; yet I — I idolized 
him. To me he was the personification of know- 
ledge, for often during his leisure hours he would 
tell me stories of the outside world of which I 
knew very little. Carefully, skillfully, he pictured 
the temptations that beset young men in cities; 
strongly and emphatically he advised how they 
could be overcome. The many valuable hints I 
gathered from him were subsequently of priceless 
value to me. To the rest of the community he 
was Silent Sam as he was called. Probably be- 
cause I had tact enough never to question him 
concerning his past was the reason, or one of 
the reasons, why he took almost a paternal 
interest in me. And I must say to his credit 
that I attribute my success in no small degree 
to his kind advice and teachings. Of course, in 
my boyish admiration, he L was always right 
and what he said was law. 


142 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“ One evening the men were all seated at 
supper after a hard day's work on the thresher, 
when father turned to Sam. 

“ ‘ Sain/ said he, ‘ 1 guess Til take four 
or five hundred bushels of wheat to town to- 
morrow. The price has been steady for several 
weeks now, and don't 'pear to be apt to get 
higher. I'll take Charley, and — and Jim,’ nod- 
ding at a new man he had just hired. ‘ We'll 
be gone all day, so you kind of look after 
things.' 

“ ‘All right, sir,' answered Sam, without 
looking up from his plate. Such trips were not 
infrequent so Sam thought nothing about it. 

“ ‘Nothing you want in town, is there?' 
questioned father. 

“ ‘No sir.' 

“ ‘No mail to send or call for?' 

“ ‘No sir.' 

“ ‘By the way, Sam, I don't believe you 
ever got a letter,' persisted father, who should 
have known his man better than to taunt 
him. 

“ ‘Guess he skipped the town and don't 
want eny,' put in the new hand, Jim. 

“Sam flushed, then turned pale, and looking 
steadily at the stranger, he expressed himself in 
clear, cold tones. 

“ ‘There was no call for that remark,' said 
he. 

“ ‘Aw, ye needn't get huffy,’ retorted Jim, 
lowering his eyes. I hated him from that mo- 
ment. 

“ ‘You tend to your affairs and I'll tendjTto 
mine,' said Sam, a red spot glowing on each 
cheek. 


A CASE OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 1 43 

“ ‘I’ll do as I d n please, see! 1 was the 

defiant answer. 

“They might have come to blows had not 
father interrupted with 4 Come, boys, none of 
that. We won’t have any qnarreling here. But 
I can’t see why Sam is so testy on the subject 
unless there is some truth in it.’ 

“Sam wheeled toward father like a flash. 

“ ‘I didn’t expect that from you, sir,’ he 
cried. 1 A man is entitled to the privacy of 
his own affairs. If I don’t care to enlighten you 
on the subject, it is not for you to insist on 
it. Furthermore, if there is anything more said, 
much as I dislike to do it, 1 will leave your 
employ. That’s all.’ 

“ ‘Well, Sam,’ said father, taken aback. ‘ I 
beg your pardon, and Jim does, too/ A sneer 
on his swarthy face was the only expression 
that individual made toward atonement. 1 ^ ‘ We’ll 
let the matter drop.’ 

“ Sam continued eating for a few minutes, 
then got up without a word and went to his 
room. 

“ In the morning things seemed to be as us- 
ual again, except that Sam was more silent, 
more laconic in his replies. Little did any of us 
dream what the next few days had in store for 
us. 

“ It is necessary to tell you that father once 
in a while went beyond the bounds of decency in 
drinking, which was one and the worst of his, few 
faults. After disposing of the grain satisfactor- 
ily, and with the money in his pocket, he took 
a drink to ‘wet the deal/ Natural^, as things 
go, one drink led to another, till he was unac- 
countable for his actions. Then it was too late 
to deposit the money in the bank, so he had to 
bring it home with him. 


144 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“ Father came home singing at the top of 
his voice, and I blushed at the sound of it. I 
had carried some of the groceries into the 
house when I heard loud exclamations from my 
mother. Rushing out I beheld father lying on 
the ground, an inert mass, with Sam standing 
near by, a terrible passion transfiguring his face. 
The other men didn’t know the cause of the 
quarrel, only that they had seen Sam suddenly 
fell his employer to the ground. Well, we carried 
father into the house, Sam assisting, where we 
found that he was not hurt, merely being in a 
drunken stupor. 

“Sam approached me. 

“ 1 I’m very sorry for this, Freddie, boy,’ he 
said. There was pain in his eyes and his words 
rang true. I tried to answer, choked, then 
grasped his hand. 

“ We will skip the details and come to the 
crucial point. In the morning we found my poor 
old dad stark and stiff, with a jack-knife stick- 
ing in his breast, murdered, like a dog in his 
sleep. The money was gone — and so was Sam. 
’Twas his big knife, with which he had often 
whittled for me so many pretty articles, that 
had done the deed. Everything seemed simple 
enough and pointed clearly to the guilt of 
Silent Sam. The evidence was damning, yet 
there clutched at my heart a doubt as to 
my hero’s committing such an act. The warm 
words at the table, the quarrel of the previous 
evening, his unknown past, his disappearance — 
these were terribly strong facts to combat; yet, 
oh, I thought, there must be some dreadful 
mistake. 

“The news spread like wildfire; strong men 
left their work undone and strode away; women 


A CASE OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. I45 

stood in doorways with white set faces — they 
knew where their lords vere going and the evil 
they had in their hearts ; and little children clung 
to their mother's apron, terrified at the some- 
thing that was in the air. And the small knot 
of men in the distant farmyard grew in size, 
silently, rapidly. 

“ The posse was formed of fierce, brawny 
farmers, athirst for the blood of a fellow man. 
The country was scoured and they caught Sam 
in a neighboring town and brought him back to 
our farm. I noticed that the dark-browed Jim 
seemed to be the leader. Poor Sam. 

“ Dragged, pulled, beaten, kicked and spat 
upon, he finally found himself under a large 
tree with a rope around his neck. He knew most 
of the men who were handling him so roughly. 
Some were close enough to be termed friends. But 
now friendship had fled, taking the past and 
many annoying memories with it. These 
creatures surrounding him were no longer fel- 
lowbeings — they belonged to another species of 
animal. He was encircled by wolves — the worst 
and most vicious kind. Slowly his eye tra- 
velled over the faces leering at him, searching 
for a spark of pity. But mercy was a stranger 
in that pushing, impatient horde. His time 
had come. A wave of emotion passed through 
his frame, leaving him all a-tremble. Although 
death had no terrors for him, the nearness of 
the dread reaper chilled him to the very mar- 
row. Then the thing around his neck tightened 
with a jerk that threatened to upset him. And 
immediately the coldness vanished from his limbs 
and he became calm and composed, ready for the 
coming journey. 


146 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


‘ ‘Suddenly, above the din of voices, rose the 
cry of a condemned soul. 

“ ‘For God’s sake, men, give me a chance to 
speak ! ’ 

“The cry was pitiful yet commanding; ans- 
wering shouts of ‘Give the coward a chance to 
confess ! ’ ‘ Let him speak ! ’ ‘ Listen ! ’ rent 

the air. 

“For a moment or so he was unable to 
utter a sound, the rope had been so tight; then, 
clearly, distinctly he spoke. 

“‘Men, as you love your God, listen! 
Stop, before it is too late, for as I hope to 
meet my mother hereafter, I swear that I am 
innocent of this man’s blood. You wish to hang 
me. I am helpless to prevent it. You say I 
am guilty. I say it is a lie — a sneaking, crawl- 
ing, horrible lie ! ’ 

“The crowd here began to hoot and yell, 
then quieted once more. Their intended victim 
was motioning for silence. 

“ ‘Am I a stranger in your midst that you 
should have no faith in my honor? Believe you 
that I have no heart, no conscience, that I 
should thus murder my benefactor in the night? 
Is there any here who can say I ever did him 
wrong? There are none. Is there any here 
who ever heard me tell a malicious lie for selfish 
purposes? You don’t reply. Then why, I ask 
you, why should I now seek to protect myself 
from harm by such methods? Have you no 
courts in this land where justice is done? 
Think you I would be punished the less if found 
guilty by the regular course of law? No, no, 
calm yourselves, and as there is a just God in 
heaven, justice shall be done. Listen,’ and he 
raised his hand to quiet some murmurs. ‘ A few 


A case of circumstantial evidence. 147 


words more will be all. I was wild as a boy, 

wild, quick tempered and always in trouble. God 
knows I didn't think of the future till one day 
I found my poor old mother dead, died, they 
say, of a broken heart.’ 

“ Here he extended both hands skyward. 

“ ‘ Mother, they say,’ he cried, ‘ that I 
was responsible, that I was the cause. It 
drove me crazy, men, crazy, do 3^ouhear; and 
when I came to myself again I was being 

cared for by this man you say I have 

murdered. Yes, it is true we quarreled, but he 
cursed my mother. For that reason I left 

him in the night, but for his death, men, 
I here beg that lightning may strike me black, 
to fall at your feet a thing of horror if I had 
ought to do with it. I am through.’ 

“ As he finished, the cooler ones, much im- 
pressed, were disposed to go slow, but the 
young hot-headed fellows, urged on by Jim, 
were in the majority and with cries of ‘ All lies.’ 
‘Lynch him.’ ‘ We’ll teach him a lesson.’ ‘He 
never had a mother,’ they pressed forward. 

“Grasping the tightening rope in his hands, 
Sam shouted : 

“ ‘ Does no one think me innocent? ’ 

“Hot and cold waves dashed over me and I 
felt like falling, but nerving myself I called out, 
‘I do, Sam, I do.’ 

“He looked at me; his eyes filled with 
tears, and he said, brokenly, ‘ God bless you.’ ” 

My narrator stopped with a suspicion of 
moisture in his eyes. A lump rose in my throat 
and I leaned down, loosened and retied my 
shoe-laces. 

“Ah, well,” he finally resumed, “ ’twas all 
useless. Next day he was buried alongside of 


148 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


father, by mother’s and my request. Some de- 
murred at the idea, but I was boss there then. 
The papers said, ‘The lynching, though not 
within the boundaries of the law, should be a 
reminder to desperadoes of his ilk what they 
might expect at the hands of a justly enraged 
and honest people.’ ” 

He paused again and I gently asked, “And 
did you ever find out who — who — ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ A month or so later 
a horse thief (who turned out to be our hired 
hand, Jim, and who had left us the day follow- 
ing the terrible affair) was dangerously wound- 
ed and confessed to the murder, telling how he 
had stolen Sam’s knife and where he had buried 
the money. Whenever I think of Sam, Sam, my 

boyhood friend, l I- ” 

Here, out of politeness, I turned and looked 
out of the window, thinking thoughts ot my 
wn. 


The Eye of Fortune, 


There were four of us in the store when he 
entered: John Harding, my principal competi- 
tor — I maintain it is foolish to be other than 
friendly with your rivals; his brother, Mert; 
Messer, my chief assistant, and myself. The 
time, a Saturday evening, about ten o’clock, 
I should say. My practice is to close at nine 
and this night was no exception. But, instead 
of leaving, we turned out most of the lights and 
stayed and talked. You know how it goes 
when men get together and dig up reminiscences. 
Tragedy struts majestically after careless com- 
edy and the humorous mingles with the pathe- 
tic. Family skeletons are drafted for service 
and the imagination soars to perilous heights 
of credulity. Time glides by on ball bearings. 
I know, speaking personally, that it is a su- 
preme pleasure to sit down with a small com- 
pany of congenial souls, lean back in your chair, 
get a good cigar between your teeth and talk. 
So the four of us were up to our eyes in stories, 
while the smoke smothered the only lighted 
bulb in greyish, ghastly wreaths, lending to the 
room that atmosphere of combined darkness 
and light that is peculiarly encouraging to the 
relating of experiences. And then, during a 


i5o 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


pause, as we were mentally digesting the last 
one, a figure of a man filled the doorway and we 
all looked up. 

His appearance told his cast — he was a 
tramp. The subdued light softened the rough 
ness and shabbiness of liis dress, but a glance 
at his face, hidden behind a week’s growth of 
wiry stubble, grizzled, nutbrown and dirty, was 
sufficient to classify him and cause an involun- 
tary tightening of the purse and heart strings. 
These creatures may walk into your house boldly, 
unbidden, yet knock ineffectually on the entrance 
to mercy, your heart. This sudden arrival said 
not a word, but, after standing a moment in 
the doorway, advanced slowly into the room. 
When he paused Messer spoke to him. 

“And what’s your trouble ? ” asks he. 

The stranger ignored the query; his eyes 
rested for a moment on each one of his aud- 
ience; then he straightened up and folded his 
arms. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, in an ordinary voice 
in which it seemed to me there ran a vein of 
sarcasm and haughtiness, “Gentlemen, I am in 
hard luck. I’m on my uppers. Can you give 
me a lift?” 

“What’ll you have, gentlemen?” put in 
Messer, with that peculiar grin of his. “ I’ll 
take beer.” 

Messer makes frantic attempts at times to 
be witty. This was once when he foozled. 

“Not this time, little boy,” said the 
stranger, somewhat sadly, while a smile appear- 
ed on each face. “I’m giving it to you 
straight, gentlemen. I need some coin of the 
realm.” 

Now Messer felt hurt and humiliated a 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 151 

being called a little boy and was disposed to 
retaliate. To that end he took a nickel and 
thrust it flat against a tall mirror beside him, 
the result being a resemblance of two coins. 

“ There,” he said, sneeringly, “ there, my 
aristocratic friend, is a dime for you.” 

u A shade of annoyance passed over the 
man’s face at this trifling; but it was soon 
gone and he spoke in calm even tones, without 
a trace of the slang he had been using. 

“My young friend, ” he said, “there are 
times when it is best to relegate witticisms and 
playfulness to the rear. When a man in poor- 
er circumstances than yourself addresses you 
seeks aid, do not presume he wishes to dispose 
of the money in the nearest saloon. All unfor- 
tunates are not necessarily tramps, and all 
tramps are not fools. Circumstances sometimes 
place a man where he is subject to criticism but 
he may be helpless to prevent it. Such a case 
is mine. I am not as you see me by choice. My 
profession is a noble one — that of optics. Ac- 
cordingly, I appeal to you, gentlemen — taking 
you all to be opticians — on trade relationship, 
commercial affinity. I need help.” 

His evident sincerity and his use of good 
language struck me forcibly. I believe in the 
doctrine of giving to all and thereb3 r reaching 
the needy few instead of giving not at all and 
reaching none. We have too little of real charity 
in this world. Also, his claim to knowledge of 
optics caught my attention. 

“Sit down, my friend, ” I said. “You came 
just in time to join us with a story. Tell us, if 
you care to, how you came to be in such an 
unfortunate plight and we will give you a help- 
ing hand.” 


152 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


“This offer smacked of another possible 
form of torment and the visitor hesitated in 
complying till I pulled a chair around for him. 
Then he sat down, manifestly glad to be among 
gentlemen. He took the cigar I handed him 
with a fervent i Thank you, sir/ and the match 
went round the circle. 

“You have asked a story of a man,” he be- 
gan, noting the effect of his words on each face, 
“ who has a strange one to tell, stranger, I in- 
fer, than any you told to-night. Presuming this 
to be the case, I must ask you not to put me 
down as crazy or my tale as the child of a fer- 
tile imagination. ‘Tis truly said that truth is 
stranger than fiction, but the teller of unusual 
real happenings must be of undoubted veracity 
or he must needs look to his reputation.” 

There was a stir among his listeners as they 
settled themselves to listen to what promised to 
be good to hear, an oracular treat. 

“ My tale,” resumed the narrator, “ com- 
mences five years back in — well, a city not a 
thousand miles away, where I had an optical 
store. I was young, energetic, ambitious. I was 
thorough, persevering and in love with my 
work. Although not rich I was in a prosperous 
condition, had excellent credit and a steadily 
increasing popularity. I was modern to the 
marrow and with the influx of gold, I changed 
and altered, discarded and rebought, tore down 
and rebuilt, until my store was a gem among 
gems. It was a cure for sore eyes. A mecca for 
the sight-afflicted, a bonanza of beauty for all 
to behold It shone like a brand new frame, 
was as complete as a watch, eve^thing neces- 
sary to a smooth frictionless running being 
present; and as a result, customers were at- 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 


153 


tracted to it like flies to a chunk of sweets; for 
verily it was as much a work of art as the rim- 
less eyeglasses and spectacles I turned out. 
Gentlemen, a whisper, I was proud. Proud as a 
man with a new patent guard. I had originality 
as an advertiser and I sent out bushels of 
printed matter. Personally, I lost few sales, 
once a man came within the sound of my voice. 

I am gifted with a natural persuasiveness, and 
might have become a great orator and politic- 
ian had I so chosen. But that is beside the 
question. 

“ As I was saying, I knew how to sell a 
man, but my field was limited. I couldn’t 
speak personally to every one. So I resorted to 
advertising and inserted my individuality into 
it. I was simple, direct and honest in my 
statements. Moreover, I was relentless in the 
warfare, for I sent out the matter to convince 
and overwhelm prejudices. It caught a man’s 
eye in his morning paper at the breakfast table, 
stared him in the face in the street cars, appeal- 
ed to him from signboards, bobbed up before 
him on his desk, laughed at him from the thea- 
tre program, and awaited him behind the screen 
door at home. It went everywhere, telling my 
story. People saw and read and shoved aside; 
saw again and read again and once more shov- 
ed aside, the words sticking in their minds for a 
space; saw repeatedly thereafter; felt as though 
compelled to read, then thought, thought ser- 
iously; and finally, convinced and believing, came 
to me. A stream of gold poured out of my cof- 
fers, but a larger stream replaced it constant^, 
persistently. Gentlemen, a whisper, I became 
envied by other opticians and hated by my 
dear friends, the oculists, whose incomes were 


154 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


beginning to shrink. I remained unchanged by 
it all save that I shrank more within myself, 
became more reserved if anything, for fear of 
offending some who might think my taking 
notice of them an act of condescention on my 
part. Still it would be false to say that I was 
not happy. 

“For a time this state of affairs continued. 
Then, in an evil moment, I wrecked it all — or 
rather laid the mine that afterwards did the 
work. Let me tell you. Our city was the cen- 
tre of a great coal mining district and one eyed 
men were frequently met with on the streets. 
Their number was remarkable, noticeably so; for 
in all my travels later I never came to a city 
that sheltered so many of the kind. I had turn- 
ed down so many inquiries about glass eyes that 
I finally decided to become a specialist, having 
a knowledge of the profit in that line. Curse the 
day ! So, scraping together all my spare cash, 
I put in a large stock of artificial eyes of assort- 
ed tints and sizes. Then I put my genius to 
work. I sent out glowing accounts of the 
wonderful possibilities of a well-fitted eye, well 
larded with testimonials from people who never 
lived. None of my advertising from then on fail- 
ed to make note of the new department and of 
the value it was to the community. A drop of 
oil here and a sprinkle of common sense there. 
An every day truth, dressed and groomed for 
the purpose, followed by shoulder- hitting, pithy, 
unanswerable arguments. That was the system. 
That was my key to many a pocketbook. The 
effect was electrifying. Yes, sirs, would you be- 
lieve it, I actually was convinced by my own 
statements. But what pleased me more, what 
mounted to my brain like a draught of wine, 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 


155 


was the gratifying fact that others believed it 
also. It would surprise you, gentlemen, to hear 
of the number of one-eyed people that came to 
see me, the specialist, the recognized local 
authority on glass eyes. You, who are in the 
business, can wonder when I tell you I sold as 
many as fifteen in one day, singly. I began to 
have visions of automobiles, green fields and a 
country home. How I used to debate with 
myself whether I should have a colored coach- 
man or a plain white one. But gentlemen, alas, 
that question was never to be answered. 

“One day, while riding the crest of the wave, 
a little dirty old man entered. His unkempt 
appearance disgusted me — don’t smile, I have a 
natural aversion to untidiness though my pre- 
sent exterior belies it — and when I looked into 
the mucous filled cavity of one eye, no pre- 
ventitives would have hindered him had he 
chosen to turn and walk out. Would God that 
he had. 

“Particular! He was three times as particu- 
lar as a woman buying an Easter hat. Noth 
ing would suit him but that I show him my en- 
tire stock. This he pawed over, anxious like, his 
shock head jerking from side to side as he swung 
his good eye in sweeping glances from one tray 
to another. He would pick up an eye utterly 
impossible, turn it over quickly, then put it 
down and pick up another. His actions were of 
one who had lost something valuable and had a 
limited time to find it in, in order to catch a 
train, you know. 

“Patience is a necessary virtue to all retail- 
ers, especially so to glass eye fitters. It was a 
valued trait of mine, but I confess to an in. 
creasing uneasiness as the old fogie kept up hi s 


156 


TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 


frantic search. Other customers were awaiting 
me. I was losing valuable time. Words were on 
the tip of my tongue when he suddenly paused 
with a shell poised between the thumb and 
finger. He paid me the $5.00 — that was all I 
charged when the patient did his own fitting — 
and walked out. But gentlemen, a whisper. He 
bought a small brownish-yellow eye when it 
should have been a large whitish-blue. But if 
he was satisfied so was I. My advice would 
have cost him $5.00 more. 

“ That’s easy money,” says I to myself, 
spitting to relieve my stomach. 

“Now conies the strange part of the story. 
Every month, as regular as a statement from 
the big factories, old Stomacli-bitters (my 
nickname for him) shuffled in and bought an 
eye. Each visit was replete with the proceed- 
ings of the first, altered perhaps by an appar 
ently increased anxiety on the part of my cus- 
tomer. Each departure dragged from me an 
involuntary sigh, as if a load had been taken 
off my mind. What he did with the odd eyes I 
could not say for I never saw one in his head. 
Yet his money was good and as I intimated 
before if he was satisfied, so was I. 

“We’ll say that six months went by. Maybe 
more, maybe less. The passing of time didn’t 
worry me much in those busy days. Then, one 
day, when old Stomach Bitters appeared unusual- 
ly anxious and with a 1 won’t-you come-and-help- 
me’ look on his face, curiosity got the better of 
me and I asked him what he did with them all. 
He eyed me suspiciously, desperately, it may be. 
I assured him I was merely curious, that was all. 

“ ‘It ees the reason you want, ees it?’ he 
said with a strong French accent. ‘Tres bien, 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 


157 


monsieur. I will tell it to you. 1 

“ 4 Some feefty, seventy fiv’, hundred years 
ago/ he continued, 1 there was a family of ze 
eyemaking in France by ze name of Parbault. 
The secret of ze eyemaking was passed down 
from one member to another — from ze father to 
ze oldest son. So, as long as they cannot re- 
member, ze Parbault make ze glass eye. But 
they have a tradition, or a — a what you call it — 
superstition. It ees ze one bad luck to have to 
wear a glass eye, and when they make number 
1000 they put a special mark in it and call it 
ze Eye of Fortune. So with each thousand they 
make goes one Eye of Fortune. And who gets 
one of these eyes either have ze great good 
luck or ze great bad luck. Me, I could tell you 
many, many things of these eyes.’ 

“ 1 Finally, monsieur, ze last of ze family he 
die, just as he finish an Eye of Fortune. He fall 
grasping ze Eye in his hand and die, so. I trace 
the bye to America and to your store, monsieur. 
So it is, that as I am having ze bad luck now, if I 
get ze eye so will I have ze great good luck and 
be happy. That ees why I buy so many eyes, I 
am trying to find it. But ze mark in ze Eye, 
ah, monsieur, that I will not tell/ 

“You can imagine the sensations this recital 
produced in me. I was reared in a superstitious 
atmosphere and am almost ready to believe any 
old woman’s tale. 

1 1 This, then, accounted for my run of luck — 
the possession of the Eye of Fortune. I immed- 
iately resolved to sell no more eyes of that lot 
but to purchase new ones. 

“ Alas, gentlemen, I was too late. The old 
Frenchman came in next day, and in a frenzy 
of excitement and foreign gurglings told me he 


158 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

had my Eye of Fortune at last. I could have 
strangled the fool then and there. But he was 
reserved for a different fate. A week later, while 
eating in a cheap restaurant, a bone got stuck 
in his throat and before it could be removed he 
suffocated. May his bones rest uneasy in the 
grave. 1 had an attachment made on his effects 
claiming he owed me a bill, and found the 
sacred eye on his person. And that’s where I 
got the knife in my ribs. 

“Possibly in the double exchange it had lost 
its charm for me and reversed Or I may have 
been so confused and bewildered that I neglected 
my business. Anyway, I began to go down hill. 
I was robbed twice in as many months. People 
forgot to pay their bills. Importunities were in 
vain. Lawsuits were out of the question. One of 
my help got the smallpox and I was quarantin- 
ed. Then lire overtook me and through a tech- 
nicality I got no insurance. My bank advanced 
a loan. But there was none of the Phoenix 
about me; there was no rising from the ashes. I 
had no business. Custom had fallen away. Try 
as I would I couldn’t bring it back. Sickness 
sapped my vitality while despair ate away my 
ambition. I was down and out. I had run the 
race and was the losing favorite. I was all in. 
In a year, gentlemen, I was a wanderer on 
the face of the earth, a vagrant, a tramp, 
without a home, without a dollar. 

“You may wonder why I didn’t part with 
the fatal talisman. The reason is I simply 
couldn’t do it. I have started to throw it 
away but have always lowered my arm and 
pocketed the Eye. Why? I don’t know. It 
had a hold on me I can’t explain. How j 
used to take it out, rub it, wash it, gaze a t 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 


159 


it, pray to it. All to 110 avail. I was hoo- 
dooed and hoodooed good and plenty. The 
eye had become a part of me and I of it. It 
was the one thing that hindered me from sink 
ing to the lowest depths; the little coal of fire 
under the remnants of my ambition keeping it 
warm. It was the salt that neutralized the bit- 
terness of the acid in my blood. Gentlemen, the 
possession of it precluded the carrying out 
of many oft planned attempts at self murder. 
For I had sunk to the level where I considered 
living a burden, a useless waste of energy, a bore, 
a foolish struggle. It were better to be not at 
all than to be as I was, so I reasoned. And 
the possibility of my ever attaining a respect- 
able position again was very remote, manifestly 
out of the question. So what was the use? Yet 
the power, the unseen, intangible, inscrutable 
force that held me coursed through my blood 
and tingled through my nerves, was evidently 
of another opinion, and took precious good 
care that the thread of life remained intact. 
Which is to say that which held me down kept 
me down and wouldn’t let me quit when I be- 
came tired and disgusted. Don’t talk to me 
about man being master of his circumstances. 
That’s all bosh — all right for success papers for 
growing boys and girls. 

“Years dragged by and— well, not altogeth- 
er unhappily. Nature soothed and healed the 
wound in my pride. My only care was for the 
next meal and I got so I could miss two or 
three without murmuring about my hard lot. I 
travelled everywhere and saw everything worth 
seeing. On foot I visited treasure houses of 
beauty unknown to dollar freighted unfortun 
ates. Arrogance softened into philosophical 


l60 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

tranquility. Avarice was a thing of the past. 
Ambition was lost in the pleasures of a full 
stomach and a complete present. Worry was 
cast to the winds. Contentment was the pre- 
vailing note in my make up, me, the irrespons- 
ible happy go lucky wanderer, the common 
everyday bum. In truth, gentlemen, I became a 
child of nature, a primordial man, alert straight- 
forward, sincere, roaming around from place to 
place, satisfying the physical man and letting 
the rest of the world go to the devil if it liked. 

“ You must not think there were not times 
when it palled on me. Sometimes it was a whiff* 
of tobacco, a man’s voice, strains of music, or 
the sight of a well dressed sweet-faced woman. 
Then I would become morbidly lonesome and 
homesick. Memories of better days would come 
with a rush, overwhelming me. Then the next 
thing I knew I was heading for home. Usually 
I didn’t get very far when the bugaboo of the 
Eye of Fortune would halt me. What was the 
use while I had that? If I could only get rid 
of it — then off I would go on a quiet hunt for a 
taker. 

“ I have in mind the time that after one of 
these sudden outbursts I came to a spot of beauty, 
an upheaval of enthusiasm in the exuberance of 
nature, as pretty a place as I ever set eyes upon. 
It was a large grove set in the middle of a tree- 
less plain; a streamlet, sun tired, smooth flowing, 
glided into the woods with a gurgle as if pleased 
with the enticing shade; then noisily emerged, 
seemingly rejuvinated by its short sojourn, on 
its way across the heated expanse of dry table- 
land. One could trace its course to the very 
horizon. The odor of the woods filled the 
nostrils and a calmness settled on me like that 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE l6l 

of a benediction. It was weirdly beautiful, quiet, 
cool, *soul resting, this haven of rest, this gem on 
the breast of nature. And as the winds sighed 
through the trees, the moaning pines and rust- 
ling cottonwoods, it was as if I heard a man of 
God pronouncing the last words over a loved 
one lately dead — 4 earth to earth, dust to dust.’ 

“ I had been traveling since morning and you 
can imagine the wealth of my gratitude on greet- 
ing this spot of green in a world of mottled 
brown. In its seclusion I stripped and plunged 
into the stream, frolicking like a ten year old. 
Then, still in a state of freedom, I stretched out 
on the grassy sward to rest. Through clefts in 
foliage overhead I caught glimpses of fleecy 
clouds. Birds flitted from branch to branch and 
squirrels looked saucily down at me, the uninvited 
intruder in their Eden. My thoughts went back 
to the past, to the days of ambitions and worries, 
to money friends and money bought pleasures. 
No more of that for me. I was happy now. 
Millionaires could not have more. 

“I suppose I slept pretty soundly for when I 
became conscious of my surroundings again, I 
was stiff and sore and chilly. Looking around 
for my clothes, I became wide-eyed with aston- 
ishment. Surely this was a page from Rip Van 
Winkle. I had taken off a fairly decent suit of 
clothes, but these now staring me in the face were 
shabby and ragged in the extreme. The fact 
Anally dawned on my awakening intellect that I 
had been touched for my garments; in other 
words, some kind watchful person had exchanged 
with me. Such an act was a sacrilege on the 
sanctity of the grove The punishment of the 
thief should be — I stopped ruminating suddenly, 
striken dumb by a thought. 


162 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

u Have you ever had an idea or thought 
come to you so suddenly it stuns you ; shine in 
increasing brilliancy as you gradually approach 
it from the distance where your astonishment 
has thrown you? That was the case with me. 
The man that .stole my wearing apparel got the 
Eye of Fortune ! 

“ Rolling this morsel of knowledge under my 
tongue as I donned the rags, tasting it, smack 
ing of its delights, my face widened and widened 
into a grin until I finally sat down with a thud 
and burst into a loud guffaw. The welkin rang 
with my paroxisms. A redheaded woodpecker 
stopped his drumming to gaze at me, amazed. 
The poor devil of a thief. 1 was rid of my hoo- 
doo at last. Once more I was capable of a battle 
with the world. The joy of the moment, the 
unexplainable relief, as if a load had been lifted 
from my shoulders, was almost more than I 
could bear. Then something smooth and hard 
under my hand chilled me as if a chunk of ice had 
been thrust down my neck. I picked it up — and 
fell on my face. Gentlemen, a whisper. It was 
the Eye of Fortune ! 

“That was a blow of Fate. It penetrated 
almost to my vitals. I surely must have .suc- 
cumbed had I not had a sense of the ridiculous. 
And so I weathered that storm. 

“Another time, when I was enjoying the 
luxury of a dirty bed in a cheap lodging-house, 
the blamed building caught on fire from a pipe 
one of my fellow-lodgers had taken to bed with 
him. The beds were all tried and true veterans 
and were literally soaked in kerosene, which was 
the result of an unceasing warfare on the inhab- 
itants thereof. Irregular blotches, battlefields of 
glory, showed through the grime of the pine floor, 


THE EYE OF FORTUNE. 163 

around each bedpost. Here was where the carnage 
was supreme. Here the brave warriors fought 
herocially for their birthright, their native home, 
and perished crying for blood. Loyal to their 
dead, the rising generations, in fierce, countless 
swarms, fell on the sleeping enemy, putting them 
to ignoble flight. But the enemy would return, 
reinforced with a can of oil and, cruel monsters, 
would send them to join their ancesters. In this 
way the lodging house was ripe for fire. 

“On the particular occasion of which I speak, 
I was sleeping the dreamless sleep of one who has 
nothing on his mind and nothing to do. My 
coat was hanging on the bedpost. I presume I 
was making fast time, throttle wide open, and 
hand on the air-brake, when a wild hubbub 
brought me up in ten feet. It sounded like an 
Indian massacre. Of course, I never was in one 
but have read of them, and therefore seize on the 
phrase as an apt illustration. The tumult in- 
creased around me while I struggled vainly with 
the vSleep. Men were yelling hoarsely close by. 
Then a rough hand seized me by the collar and 
yanked me full six feet, the while shrieking mad- 
ly into my ear, ‘ wake up, ye d — n fool. Th’ 
place is on fire/ 

“Well, I reached the street somehow, sans hat, 
sans coat, sans shoes. As there was a pleasing, 
soft carpet of say six inches of snow on the 
ground with the mercury playing peekaboo with 
the zero mark, you can imagine I was quite com- 
fortably situated. Yes, indeed, I could have 
delivered a lecture then and there on the beauties 
of the snowflake and the unhealthfulness of hug- 
ging the stove. But as a matter of fact I didn’t. 

“Kindhearted bystanders were smitten with 
feelings of pity and bestowed on us unfortunates 


364 TALES OF AN OPTICIAN. 

wearing apparel to replace what was being 
burned. As I thrust my arm through a coat- 
sleeve, I suddenly paused. Why? The Eye of 
Fortune was in my old coat. Accordingly, as a 
vent to my exultation, I opened my mouth and 
sent forth a yell which I verily believe helped in 
sending the roof in with a crash. Bystanders 
eyed me in astonishment mixed with awe, no 
doubt thinking I was losing my senses. 

“The next day I repaired to the scene of my 
release from bondage. The weather had moder- 
ated and the ruins were swarming with men and 
boys searching for relics and souvenirs. As I 
stood looking on, smiling broadly, a wisp of rag 
was tossed into the air by a frolicsome searcher 
and fell at my feet. I examined it casually and 
was about to throw it aside when I noticed it 
was part of a coat, a pocket. Here might be 
some money, I thought. So I dove into the 
pocket and brought forth — the Eye of Fortune.. 

“Gentlemen, a horse can pull just so much 
and a man can overcome just so much trouble. 
I sat right down on one of those blackened, ice- 
coated timbers and had a good cry, the first 
time I gave way to my feelings in years. 

‘Those are but two of the man}' instances I 
could relate, proving that I was hoodooed and 
that I couldn’t rid myself of it. But I’ll pass the 
others over or you might think I was warping 
the truth. Some people call such things coinci- 
dences, but I call it the hand of fate. You can 
judge yourselves whether or not I was justified 
in so calling it. 

“Well, some more years dragged by as years 
have a habit of doing, till I come to the present 
Perhaps two months ago I heard in a rounda 
bout way that a man in my native city was 


T H E E Y E O F FORTUNE. 1 65 

looking for me, wishing to buy something he 
thought I possessed. I immediately wrote to an 
old friend there asking him to kindly investigate 
the man and discover his real intentions. An 
answer brought me the news that the inquirer 
was a brother of the old Frenchman who was 
the origin of all my ill fortune. He had received 
a posthumous letter shortly after his brother’s 
death, explaining all about a so-called Eye of 
Fortune. Years had passed before he was able 
to go in search of it. He now believed I was in 
possession of it and was willing to pay a good 
price for it. 

“Gentlemen, I started for home again. My 
finances were cruelly low so I have been footing 
it half the time. That accounts for my present 
dilapitated condition. I have a certain trade 
pride and have usually avoided asking aid of 
opticians. This is the first time I have unbur 
dened myself to fellowmen. Judge me justly, 
gentlemen, and if you think I deserve it, help me 
to a new start in life.” 

The story teller paused and we all sat in 
silence, except for an uneasy shifting of positions 
a^id slender spittings. Finally, as if by a signal 
we all dove into our pockets and brought forth 
money. The net sum amounted to $5.00 which 
our unfortunate fellow-optician received with 
quiet thanks and a deep curtesy. There was one 
thing on which we were all apparently thinking, 
for when Messer spoke up the rest nodded assent. 

“Would you mind showing us the Eye?” 
asked he. 

The stranger fumbled in his pocket and 
brought to view one of the small leather cases 
for holding one eye. The light was bad so we 
all stood up to examine it closer. The man held 


66 


TALES OF A N O F T I C I A N . 


it in the palm of his hand and started to hand it 
to me when it rolled off and shattered in a million 
pieces on the stone floor. Involuntarily we dove 
for it and naturally had a collision of heads. 
When we assumed respectable positions again and 
looked for the hoodooed optician, he was gone. 

The question stands the same to this day. 
Did the breaking of the Bye cause the man to 
vanish in thin air, or did he seize that oppor- 
tunity of confusion to escape from our presence? 
If it was the latter, why should he? He had our 
confidence, our money, and might have got 
more. 

My theory is — well, I’ll keep it. What is un 
solved and what stands a good chance of remain- 
ing unsolved is, what became of the last owner 
of the last Eye of Fortune? 















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